Poetry / Lullabye

Lullaby

My mother would chime lullabies
in luminous voice surges—
Where the myrrh of an eternity of sycamores,
swayed musically with marigolds and tendril
aloft a cerulean hush of dawn.
This was her hymn—
(As extraordinary as too young
Should have been.)

Some time later, she would tipple chalice
to pass the time of watching wisteria
grow in our back yard.
Until her taste was never clever enough,
her lips never purple enough.

The jolt having aborted to something less than weak.
Too fragile to wind the thoughts of her abuse.
She thought it was medicated.
And as her compulsion ripened with the rosemary,
so did our own.
Just as she adulterated into utter loss of herself,
her motherhood,
We too forgot the lyrics.

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