“Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children. Do you understand? Morphine is bad for you. Your daughter is out there on the streets, waiting for you.” Eric Draven, The Crow

From the crossroads of the world 
oceans away, defined by resilience 
chain linked human bonds forged 
an idiosyncratic spitfire. 

A myriad of expectations placed 
on women as mothers, a core 
which must be solidified to ensure 
the perfect amount of balance.

Children are the one recipe 
we are afforded with not one do-over,
no ability to erase a memory. 
If there is an inclination to rise 
it will be done in this role 
in infinite amounts. 

Imagine the most perfect 
dough recipe, pliable, stretchy,
able to stretch and come back.
With no ideal way to parent 
guidebooks provide cookie cutter
responses absent of individualism.

Hand-formed beings, require
guidance even through a mother’s 
darkest day; there are remembrances 
which must exist. Days of old may 
furnish torment, the present 
all twenty seconds is the imperative 
to witness via the optics of a child.