this wasn’t passed to you
with open, knowledgeable hands,
it was strangled into you the
only way you’d allow it to exist.
you sifted through the soot
of a house fire to get here,
cut and glued and repasted,
searched and dug and screamed
until the foundation collapsed too.
the one with the match
gets no credit for the heat.
the winds keep changing and
your arms stay tired from
turning the sails, staying the course
as smoke plumes out across the water.
Magic Mama 