Mama peels a yam
And in the frail absence of flaw
She is perfection
In the golden of her skin
Lies a many freckled story that tells me
Where she’s been
In sun-soaked concrete
Stints of asbestos tiled white light
Or abandoned warehouse sits in sun
Peeling through demolished scaffolding
That tells me of
Her life
The lighting
Becomes a phase
Her story
And in peeling a yam
She’s the best she’s
Beamed
Or has ever been
I recall the horror
Of shaded darkness
Ages of let-go blindness
A father, mine
That whimsied a perry drink in hand
Cheated
Her arms are thin
But with a muscular strong
Used to row, in a team
Many a freckled shoulder
Will lead me
To wonder
Why was she ever with him?
A hair of black strand and
Endearing eyes
Mama peels a yam and in what we endured
Together
The fruit of the womb cannot help but lay in awe of her maker
And come to her
To cry
She’s a gentle kind
And lays a delicate finger
To stroke an abandoned hair
You’ll be alright, baby
I would like to say to her
I’m sorry I haven’t been there all the more
Have been too deep set within my head
Yet she knows this and is disappointed
That with my freckled plenty
I have not had the courage
To ascend
Mama was in pain when she peeled
That yam
And in pain when she sat
On a hospital bed
I was so young
But no one really cared
Not even my father
Off with a Hungarian hairdresser
The same fingers– hands that would reach
Among the leagues of death and pain that have come
At her side
Mama is strong for her freckled story
She should be a completely different shade
With all she’s endured
And she often looks at me
With pleading eyes
Thinking
I hope she’s alright
And stiff-board posture
She tries to overcome
Independent, non-reliant to me
Bent over peeling, walking
There is a distance
But in her voice
Hair of beautiful fray and eyes that reveal
Forgotten pain
I should have peeled that yam
But Mama did it
Anyway
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