My entire life, I have learned to subsist on love that was
not whole, that was piecemeal, that was not made for me
to begin with. That kind of love makes you think you were
born wrong, a villain invading the crib. My adoptive mom
did not love me in a way I could understand, so I learned to live
in the hollow. I learned to love the mother that birthed me,
loved what I made her: a quiet, bookish woman who played piano.
When she was not who I wanted, I learned to love who she was.
I searched any approximation of her name, and learned to love
the errors. Did you mean: Sarah Walsh? Did you mean: Sarah Welch?
I learned to love the woe. I learned to love her demons. I learned to
love her refuse. I have a face only my mother could love. I have some
secrets only my mother could forgive. I say all this to say: my mother
left me to the wolves and I still loved her. Do you understand?
The weight we give daughters to carry? Like a fruit tree, I spawn good
children. Each poem sparkling and juicy. It takes a therapist one session
to name “abandonment.” The search engine says, did you mean: absence?
Did you mean: abscess? Did you mean: abstract? Did you mean: abet?
