The Mother Wound

I forgave my dad posthaste-

I never felt his presence graced.

I blame my mother, this day still-

I felt her watch and bless the kill.

And the wound beneath my skin,

Scathed and cracked and bled within-

And it throbbed beneath the veil,

And its story, raw and frail.

And it scabbed through day and night

Till the scar showed angry white.

And I beheld its painful shine

And kept the pain as solely mine.

And he and I can laugh and share,

For loving trust was never there;

Not she who nursed the wound as grace,

Then left me prey with polished face.