My mother’s mind is a steel trap
set for mythic beasts.

The innocuous comment of a coworker,
a manticore:

Poison tongue turned
Poison tail
Poised to strike.

The unforeseen change in plans,
a banshee:

Squalling Sibyl turned
Squalling squall
Squalid hope remains.

She can no more set them free,
lest they set upon her in their fury,
than she can turn her back.

She knows well the persistent attack of the immobile.

Her father’s ghost is a gargoyle,
cemented to the parapet of her psyche.
Terror turned inward,
her stone-skinned guardian’s memory
wards off her confidence
like an evil spirit.

You can hear it
in her incessant asking,
“Does that make sense” —
a defense against
being charged with stupidity
or being found guilty
of undue alacrity.
So often sentenced to vicious mockery,
she learned to soften her voice
and shed her thin, bruised skin.

A selkie,
she drifts between
land and sea
and shifts into whatever
form will set her free.

See,
she knows
if she looks too close
at the contents of her traps
all she’ll find reflected back
is her own visage.