As a Child

Cory told me about this next poem that she wrote for a class at school, but wouldn't let me read it.  I begged and cajoled, but she said, "No, Mom.  Not right now.  You'll get to read it someday."

 

Tears.

As a Child

My mother is a woman that I'd rather consider a Goddess.
I remember being such a smaller person,
sitting on the white ceramic tile of our bathroom floor.
I watched her spread red carnations across her lips,
 and they lit up like magic.
I would watch her brush through her hair that was like the gold that Rumpelstilskin spun into thread;
I would just wonder at the beauty of the gold thread

as it fell in rings around her face.
I didn't see any small imperfection that naturally belonged to any skin of human,
 because this angel wasn't human.
Her skin was broken bits of titaium painted white,

 making her so pale, so shimmering, and so indestructible.
My immortal mother had love and kindness swelling in her bosom,
and I'd like to remember her forever

 as I remember her being when i was a child.

 

--Corinne Nicole Mansfield