Mother's Prayer

Smoke coiled through the seams of the car

and we sat in the back in the haze while classic rock blared

into your ears and you forgot for a moment that you were a mother,

that you were my mother.

Loosely strumming on the steering wheel,

palms and thumbs drumming.

Music maker child maker —

I wanted to be just like you.

I wanted to be like you until the sun went down because

when the sun went down the bottle came out

and there was Dracula —

And the werewolf —

And you.

You damaged, fermented

Dragon Woman with hands that curled

to knotted tree branches and poison spat out of you.

We hid.

I hid in my closet until the lightbulb died.

And I realized I never wanted to be like you.

But you taught me so much.

You taught me to be afraid

(I was afraid of my mother)

So I had to be strong

And you taught me to be strong and to question you

Question everything —

Go against you.

Your vicarious wishes of who I should be

who I was —

But I didn’t have a fucking clue.

And when the morning came that I watched breath escape

your chapped lips for the final time you somehow taught me right there to look Death straight in his face

and fear nothing because I already knew you, Dragon Woman.

And I don’t want to be you but I came from you

you created me — me.

I am the daughter of Patricia —

Of teased hair and electric blue eyeliner —

Of wild coolness.

I grew up at the altar of an ‘03 mustang

With empty diet coke cans and Bic lighters on hand.

Bic lighters everywhere

fire always on hand.

And you drummed your primal ancient animal skin beat to the chant in your head —

Do no harm. Take no shit.

The final lesson of my mother.