i wrote this about the relationship i envisioned having w/ a daughter one day. thinking about the relationship i have w/ my mutha--and never feeling quite adequate in the space she and i shared...i mirrored my relationship w/ this dream child the same way.

"jumping at the moon" nov/01


& it was that morning she realized she was doomed to be nuthing as great as her mudda. that no trumpets wld sound at her newly accomplished presence, no one wld notice her lip turned slitely in discontent, nothing wld quake at the eruption of her voice. it was at this time she realized just how woman she was. being just that, and never anything more. not to be the poet laureate her mother was. to walk in shadows built by a woman confining wurds in sentences no heavier than the breasts others carry. a mudda celebrated , and a child of simple blood, and a quicker haste.

my mudda is a writer, and that is all i will ever be. & even at the
start of my life to birth me textless, songless, storyless, a fragment to her run-ons. anemia runs deeper than iron lack, w/o poetic voice of my own. to birth me make me no greater than missled children bethlehem attacks, but throw no fists toward mecca. w/o redemption, benefit, i am bruised finger too athritic to ask movement. i am whistle w/o nut. my mudda is a writer, and that is all i will ever be.

she is my child had to be prism, energy stagnant. w/ whut title do i owe ur pain? daughter of wurds i sumtimes fear, pwr i have no choice but succumb to. & to whut great privledge do i owe ur distress? u are my constant, my undefined, my uniformed, my tribal,sacrificed in agony.

& it was this morning she realized her child wld hate her wurds. that
every ink mark made to secure safety and comfort and solitude was in
vain. that her child wld no longer read her wurds. it was at this time she realized her daughter lacked all that was carried in shared genes. that she wld not sing, she wld not write, she wld not dance. she did not care for passions, her hair wld never mount fingers, and twirl tango fk steadily to relieve that itch. her child wld be nuthing like her. she wld not open her legs free of hosiery, and confine his face to drker dinners, red wine on camisoles, sad songs on sundays. it was then she realized her child was not barefoot in the wurld. that she wld have to jump w/ her, but not as high if she were to ever catch the moon.