I skulk away from the sun,
that early morning predator
stalking me from the other
side of the faded garden shed.
I know her terrifying capabilities,
not yet nine am
and I’m toe-hopping on concrete.
Inside, the child is still crying.
I turn my head, as if blinking hard
could make it stop.
I, too, want to weep
for my own mother
who is nowhere to be seen.
I search for shade,
pretend to sleep,
a shaft of light caresses my sore feet.
No wonder she is so revered,
the mother we long for,
to tend the hurt she herself inflicted.
