From Daughter to Mother

Was it the grip

of my injury and

the fingertips

of my fury

that bowered the bottle’s neck

and pressed its sticky kiss

to your hunger?

Tell me,

was it the rootless stretch

of my acrimonious love or

the gnarled skeleton

of my perished youth

that tilted the bottle’s base

to face a heaven in which

you’d soon reside?—

all your prayers doused

in a sodden hearth,

all your hunger

growling and drunk—

Please

tell me,

was it my embrace

that swaddled your thirst and

was it my barren chest

that nursed your emptiness and

was my silence the frigid lullaby

that stole your birth

and led your lips

to hunt for heat?

Tell me,

is heaven warm?

-Iris