Daughters of Dead Mothers
A poem about growing up in the wake of a mother’s addiction, absence, and death.
We have agency in the constructs
of who we are & who we aren't.
But some homes are built on solid foundations
& some on rocky starts.
Some mothers eat handfuls of Xanax
Washed down with rum & Pepsi
Some mothers bring children into the world
and then leave them with hearts heavy
& empty.
Some mothers steal your birthday money
Or pawn your brother's guitar
Most nights they fall over the coffee table
Sometimes they crash their car.
Some daughters spend years
Pretending their mother doesn't exist
Because otherwise they'd face the question
"Why doesn't she love me enough to quit?"
Fathers try so hard
They do their absolute best
But there's only so much they can do
They married an absolute mess
Sometimes mothers spend a month in the ICU
Seeking refuge from death
in an asylum of
mechanically driven breaths
They wake to find the right side of their body is working
But can't say the same for their left.
Some mothers go home, but their address is different now.
Chaos is replaced with quiet,
but quiet is really just its own kind of loud.
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Five years go by
Daughters turn 16
They stand and watch
As men bury a box
"They're burying half of me"
Daughters of dead mothers
Swim in seas of empty bottles
They get to know their mothers
Drowning in her same sorrows
Daughters of dead mothers
Sleep with bottles beneath their pillow
They drink until fair skin & blue eyes
Turn to sickly shades of yellow
Daughters of dead mothers
Who have dead sisters too
Grieve brothers still living
And the love that never grew.
Of all human connections,
siblings outlast any other we share.
But my sister died when I was 7
& If I died, would my brother notice?
& If he did, would he care?
Daughters of dead mothers
Would be lost without their fathers
Whose love was always greater than the sum of
all the losses.
my dad never left me
and he never made me feel like love was
something I had to beg for, earn, or barter.
The love he's shown me makes up for
those who never offered.
Daughters of dead mothers
Inherit brittle, labyrinthine hearts
A lifelong convalescence rebuilds them
piece by piece, from salvaged parts.
