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