When he sang Matilda,

He sang of butter half-spread on toast,

Hair mussed as her eyes ache for sleep,

Dirty dishes awaiting 

her cleanliness,

A forehead marked with memories

Of indignation. 

She wove her lore into my hair

to have me snip the stories away. 

To let them fall into the abyss 

Like pencil shavings. 

You are our mother’s rage— 

Adolescence siphoned

Shielding me from life’s intrusions

An imbued

But miserable proclivity.

I know. 

The Gods enabled you to fly

With sinewed, battered wings

The fiery wounds

Nestled in your feathers

I so yearn to bear.