Mother

Mother used to be wild,

Red hair curling and

Long for us to grab hold of.

And now she is smoothed, shiny bob

Ordinary

Like the glossed image of a magazine

Set dull on the rack.

She used to greet us on the sea shore

Turning up the sand, the shells

The wind in her hair and the sun on her skin

Freckled. Dawning

Clay bead necklaces

Made by our play dough hands.

Now she is all pearls and quiet hues

A defiant repose.

Mother is just a word

And Woman stands in her place

Like Homes become mere Buildings

A murder told in fiction

To save from the tragedy of its far worse fact.