The Rich Woman's Daughter

The Rich Woman's Daughter

My mother was an artist

In the silence of her suffering

In the shadows where bruises blossomed 

Like tattooed bouquets 

Unseen, hidden in the saunter of her silhouette

I, a child of three or four 

Peering through sleep tangled tresses

Leaned into a cornered wall 

and listened, lurching in lyric luminosity 

Through thin walls of thick silent dark nights 

My mother was an artist 

With closed eyes, swaying hips sashaying 

Barefooted in the sensuous way I knew only

As her 'ocean dance' - rising to embrace

A tall perfect partner visible only

to us - his arm around her

slim waist - his eyes soft 

as she rose and fell into his gentling rhythm

an Aubusson replacing the lineloum under her toes 

My mother was an artist  filling

those dark silent empty nights

with arcs of color as she danced and

finally, finally, the walls of silent suffering 

melted as she sang in liquid lyricism 

carefree as a songbird pouring

sweet sonneted alliteration songs

as I, a child of three or four 

watched and loved and learned