my mother, oh mother.

Crunch, Crunch,

Crack

Go the snow-laden woods.

My feet, dragging mortar

grinding crude paths

to deliver the food.

Crunch, Crunch, Crack.

Frost and fur

scraping eyes and cheek.

Soon, sight of the cherry rocking chair

creaked —

disturbing the wood.

That same wood

once rocked my mother’s womb.

Tap, Tap,

Crack

Nanny’s white knuckles rolled,

with no toothy grin.

“Girl, you are late.

Have your damned rice and date.”

beckoned her rolling pin.

My brazen elbows crossed,

Swift prayer follows.

I break my fast.

GULP.

Renewed at last.

Pounding away at the dough,

Nanny, a predictable script

Shrieks — pointedly.

“Great, again, another mouth to feed.”

And that same — prick crawls my spine…

I stare at her, sometimes.

Her and her beaten hands.

Then breathe and quieten,

And take another bite.

I may try to understand.

But I can’t help but wonder,

Should Nanny have borne a son,

Would her hands be more giving -

Would she feel more fed?

Nan could give me a bread,

Yet he could bring home at least three.

She never did need me.

And I sat there,

At that carved creaky table.

And she watched

And I wolfed down her livelihood.