I am still the daughter
Reaching for the mother who
Denied my pains,
Devalued, discounted them,
Pains tracing the edges of her own.
In me hides the child of
Two, three, seven years. She
Clutches in silent agony --
We have not yet brought me
Back to full memory of my pain.
I am the lover of a
Gentle man who tries to
Clothe me in the weave
Of love that I dictate, the
Fabric spotted from my tears.
I am the mother of the
Infant daughter who
Trusts her desires, grasps her needs;
Fragile hands so confident
Are my impetus to heal.
Denied, I have been --
Security, a motherbond
To pass on; denied love of self, spilling Over to surround my lover and I,
Giving each to the other
Our wholeness to share.
How, for the daughter
To let go the mother,
Turn, and comfort, heal the
Child within?
How do I begin to finish
This story's necessary end?
She wrote her own ending (also),
A glib epitaph of denial,
Bruises covering her diminished body
As they had fifty years before.
They called it The Big C: Cancer;
I renamed it: Childhood.
I am, and suicide is silence,
The ultimate family loyalty.
I deserve, and to reclaim that knowing
Is reason to aspire:
Once possessed by the power of
Others, I rewrite the present "me."
--diana Mackin, 1989
Looking through my copy, I can see a great deal of text that was formed on my old electric typewriter, at my battered kitchen table -- either composed there, or carefully transcribed from my brilliant sisters' handwritten, often tear-washed, pages.
We were awesome then, and I hope the others know it still.
--diana, August 2005
