mean (a poem)

remembering a mother who was many things, but never mean.

strong and brave and not alone

I have never put flowers on your grave
but every year, I give you the salt from my body
hoping I can forgive myself for not giving beauty to beauty.

You taught me to plant flowers on scorched earth
to hold goodness with an open hand
never touch a cast iron skillet without an oven mit
and taste everything twice–then add salt.

This heaviness is death by a thousand paper cuts
and I wrap myself in absorbent sweaters
praying the tiny punctures will stay on the inside
and the blood can be wrung out once I’m home again.

I have tasted the bitter earth after falling 
teeth first, mouthful of clay, spitting and cursing the day
and being told I was mean when I was trying to be strong.

But I am not mean. 

I am the iron that was forged in your belly.
I am the main character in every novel you have ever read
the zucchini patch taking over the garden
your chickens scratching at tree roots in the backyard.

You scattered seed and scooped me up, plucking
poison out of my craw, swallowing it yourself. 
A wave of your hand had the magpies flying away
seeking tin foil far from our diamond mine.

This grief is weight-lifting with torn muscles
a lesson in eating glass
an internal bleed that will surely kill me just enough
to teach me to love others with a heart 
made from feathers and sea coral.

And if they say I’m mean, it’ll be a lesson.
“Remember, choose better over bitter.”
Swallow the medicine, spit the poison.

I am your daughter. 
Proud. Beautiful. 
Forever.

For my sweet mother, Teresa. April 19th would have been her 66th birthday.