One day I will write a poem
about my mother as a mountain,
and there will be no shame for the
broken edges, rough spots, areas
that haven’t been touched for years
we have become a railroad running through
her without words or consideration
rough hands that plough through her core,
taking all she wanted to give a helping hand,
a tender touch, kisses where it hurts, arms that always hold and understand,
she is neglected remembered when we have nothing, a giver who never receives
sadly she has learned to live off the broken pieces, to pretend it doesn’t hurt,
kneeling in prayer in hopes that we find her

One day I will write a poem
my mother will be a mountain
surround by wind, people and things
that slowly weigh her down
but she is still a woman, still a mountain,
drilled, hammered, alive, but unaware of all who love
and need her because it is never said