Migratory Pattern
My mother has been waiting for something to hatch.
Her clipped wings, her circling brain.
I was her idea, once, she says.
A shell she held to the lamp,
her warm yellow,
her thick albumin.
My flutter cast shadows
that she craved,
a place she could hide.
Instead, I emerged incandescent.
My mother exhaled and released me.
Three seasons later, I returned to find her
shivering beneath antiseptic fluorescent buzz.
I held her to the lamp.
She was my idea once, too.
My best shell, broken.
My warm yellow, my sick albumin.
7 thoughts on "Migratory Pattern"
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
The way you change from thick to sick in that last stanza is incredible!
Thank you, Anna!
Such gorgeous rhythms in the meter here, iambic in lines 1 and 2, the trochaic shift in line 3, and back and forth, back and forth. So musical.
Then there’s the content. So emotional.
You make them work together, almost invisibly, you sorceress.
Caregiving, inheritance, the weight of expectations, and the migratory cycles of dependence and release in family bonds. This poem has so much!
The musicality (use of rythm as Kevin pointed out) is so seamless!
Instead, I emerged incandescent.
The image, the thought, and the rythm in this one line — wow!
And the message is so relateable for many of us, both mothers and daughters. Thank you for sharing this.
I really responded to how you built this piece and the tone and balance you created. Shew! To “I was her idea, once, she says./A shell she held to the lamp,”
My heart! This is my favorite of yours!