These words are not yours

‘I am not a fighter’ Brigitte Poirson

Mother, these are not your utterances.
You do not talk to me without light in your voice,
without adding a pinch of hope on my tongue.

You would tell me to hang on, on days
when the wind breaks off chains,
seeking to devour bodies prone to surrender

to darkness, to nightmares and to death.

There’s a way a possessed sea rages:
my mother’s demons have resurrected,
perhaps with more entourage.

And this is why my heart bleeds before you
to show you how far you’ve wandered
from your body, believe me, mother.

You taught me to walk the world
with songs as lamps around my head,
hunting my grief as game in the forest,

and not to surrender to torments.