Bonsai

Father, you are a banyan tree

Spread on an old riverbank,

Mother knows only your roots,

And the falling of your leaves.

You tell her to tie her hair and wear

Her ambition inside her blouse,

You repeat objections until they sink

Into all the places she calls herself.

You clip her directions and desires,

Until nothing of her is colored

Outside the borders of your map,

All of her is prosperous and managed.

Father, I know why you are knots,

You toil away your hours and hairs,

Wash yourself in the mistakes of others,

So mother need not agitate her spirit.

You are right to be confused now,

Mother is stubborn and hollow,

She fights for dead branches,

Her will remembers nothing of her youth,

Except the flowers she once saw on them.

I witnessed first-hand how there are forms of abuse less visible and more damaging than physical violence. They stunt the identity and are sometimes sadly inflicted without ill-will by well-meaning people wrapped in orthodox expectations of the world.