A Spoken Word By Kaity Anczer
I don’t know if I want to call her my mother.
I wonder about the color of her eyes.
How many men could tell me?
My aunt called one evening.
Spoke to my mom.
I knew what she was saying before her mouth spoke.
She said she didn’t take her medicine.
So she died.
I knew that she died.
Because she took too much.
Memories don’t haunt me in the night.
They come in the daylight.
They are tools.
Manipulative justification of who I am
They blame my faults
The hands of a person not present
Speak for herself
Does that make sense?
Am I my mothers keeper?
I don’t struggle with memories of her in the middle of the night
I don’t battle with this
I use it.
As a tool.
Manipulative justification of who I am.
As if I was the victim.
Lets talk about humility.
We are the root of sin.
I have loved. I have hated. I do not remember her eyes, her hands, her scent. Mine have been of my mind. I remember sitting there, waiting for her. I remember. I remember. I remember finding out…
The battle never existed.
My mother was
I swear I never.
I swear I never.
What good is a promise without a covenant?
What good is forever?
You have knit me in my mother’s womb. I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I praise you, your works are wonderful. I know that full well.
I am the daughter of many men. Men who knew the color of my mother’s eyes.
I am the daughter of a prostitute. It was the only job she was able to hold.
I am the product of a sold woman.
The survival of sin.
The sacrifice and the altar.
The lust that loneliness pays.
I cast the first stone.
The only purpose of her life in my life,
Was my life.
My mother was a woman at a well.
She drew no water for the salvation of this world.
Our story is our most powerful tool.
She had my eyes.
She wore black.
She carried herself with dignified pride.
I hope she didn’t wear shoulder pads.
I imagine she couldn’t afford to.
Then again, my mother’s clothing
Were like a carpenters tools.
He cannot work without his.
And dress is a sold woman’s charm.
She probably tried her best.
As for him
The men who birthed me were nothing.
All 14 of them.
Evil was used for evil.
The seed of sin continued in bitterness.
I am a daddy’s girl. So let my fathers remain sacrilegious.
I am the woman at the well.
My sins follow me as her sins followed her.
Yet my father will not throw a stone.
This is Truth.
The only thing I know.
I spoke with my mother today.
I spoke with my father today.
And that has made all the difference.