tigerheart

In a room
of her own 

inside me
she paces 

the one 

who is not
Mother.

That restless movement
while uncomfortable 
is preferred
to when 

she goes still.

Stone still
Hard as
when provoked
regardless, 

by child or man.

Remember,

she is not mother.
She is not anybody’s 

anybody;

and when she goes still

I feel capable of anything,
an unfeeling terrifying free falling
Anything.

So 

I draw her back

into her room 
hand her a cup
of something

and can only return to my life
when assured 

she will not
follow me out.