Part I

As Mother listens, wearing the right face,

As Mother listens, eyes remaining bright,

Her answers have a timely pace.

Her voice and timbre exactly right.

But words are empty from her lips,

The consolation hardly there.

Her "constant" kindness is a hiss

Of demons sewn into her hair.

I cry and beg for mercy silently,

I plead that all my words be soft and right

to calm those things I cannot hear or see,

to soften words' near-fatal bite.

In speech, I can't impreess her mind--

I look to words of different kinds.

Part II

Put pen to page and have yourself a game

To see which soul will lie behind your hand.

Will it be eyes that look to find the blame

Or feet that look to take a stronger stand?

Will it be fingers tracing others' skins,

Or tongue that tastes the bitter fruit of life?

Perhaps the spine that carries dreams within,

Perhaps the breasts that carry hope and strife.

These parts would like a chance to speak their souls,

To share a view of worlds that they have seen,

The stories that are lost or yet untold.

I free them from Mouth's hegemonic dream.

I write to see myself and understand.

To others--try and hear me if you can.