With the grace of a queen

My mother lowers her creaking body

Into the same old wooden throne

At the same old kitchen table

Just a second later she sighs,

Breathes heartbreak the color of the ocean

But somehow it fades to gray

Invisible tears fall on unforgiving cement.

With a hand resting over her stomach

She hovers as always, the best of mother’s do

She breathes in the lilacs, violet, lavender

When promised herself the cancer wouldn’t win

She didn’t anticipate victory taking so much of her

This precious thing no longer a part of her

Out of use so long she forgot how it pulled her heart.

Later, she will permit herself one good cry

No second of it will be wasted- she’ll explain

How strange she feels, the guilt she carries

Because in choosing to save her own life

She has discarded our very first home

Can she still be considered a miracle,

Will the neighbors tell her she’s selfless

Now that this life-giver has sacrificed her vessel?

I tell her yes, she is still the same goddess

Who made her body a font of all we needed.

The thing she just gave up, I insist,

Does not a true queen or mother make.

I write poetry, prose, and personal pieces. All images are mine unless indicated otherwise. Feel free to leave feedback on my work anytime; I hope you enjoy.

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