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My Mother’s Voice

My mother’s voice
is like her belly,
four times pregnant,
loose now, and soft,
injured, healed, scarred.

I see you
old mother,
young daughter,
in an embrace that is meant
to cure pains and aches
that run deeper than skin,
run deeper even
than body.
You, old mother,
tighten your arms
around that young body,
as if your arms
with the strength of years
of worry and prayer,
will erase all sorrows.
I see you two,
and think of my mother.

My mother’s voice
is aged with cancer,
the quiet, tricksy beast
that ate her breast,
cracked, guarded, uncertain.

She says
she is half the woman
she used to be
With one breast gone.
I say
To this warrior who birthed me,
Your scars are battle wounds,
The one across your belly
and the one that is left of your breast,
Make you twice the woman,
And to me,
Twice the mother.

My mother’s voice
is like jasmine scent in my dreams.
she speaks and sings to heal my hurts,
because her voice can travel
farther than her body.

Her voice can embrace me
When she cannot.