If I were to raise my voice
your fragile heart would shatter
and tear crescents into the soles of our feet.
We are actors of necessity.
Our words are cold and diaphanous
like an angel’s wings before death.
My unsmiling mouth
fills your body with contempt.
Each time I approach your borders
it is taken as a boast of enmity.
Blood makes it personal but bridges
require substance and substantiation.
If I were to open my hands
my heart would weep itself dry.
You love the idea of love,
the ideal of mother and daughter.
My pain brightens your halo:
my pain looks better on you
than it does on me.