"my prodigy" as my mother called it, was caused by a childhood trauma that left me as a self proclaimed mute for seven years and with an ability to work with numbers. It frightened her. My mother passed away when I was 10, before I spoke again.


Mother sits on my bed.
Ice floes pass--
the black gaps between us.

I am young and already isolated.
My prodigy, as she calls it,
keeps me away from the one person
I most want to be near.

Her gray hair escapes
the orderly coif
she began the day with
and I just stare.

She puts her exhausted hand on my forehead
with fear,
some fear;
we are able to touch
but never to connect.

She would, for odd comfort,
after the late shift
hold me in her arms.

After a time
she would fall asleep
on the second single mattress in my room,
singing a little song to sleep.

She sings herself to sleep
walking down a muddy road in Cuba,
modulating as she always did
to a minor key,

Her voice a tremulous imperfect thing
trapped now in my last ears.

Poetry by Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 356 times
Written on 2015-09-09 at 17:56

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Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
The opening is extremely sad. Mothers are always loving but unfortunately cannot control everything. It is good that you have these memories. She must have loved you so very much.
But your 'prodigy" is not just numbers. It is also the joy that you give to those who know you :)

Ah, mothers. Ah, fathers. How haphazard and precarious were our relationships to our parents. Not nearly often enough did my mother and father just sit down with me and tell me what they felt, what they needed from me. What I needed from them.

Arunesh dixit
Ashe', this is very heartfelt. Traumas happen with many and they are unfortunate. But, I think mothers suffer more. You have in this poem a tinge of melancholy and fearful eyes.... looking for the Mother. It is one fine poem with many untold stories. Best.


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
This is very nice, Ashe.