She Wears my Face

She visits often, and today she speaks again, louder than before.

Beneath noble intentions lingers a disapproving tone—

one that exposes even the deepest corners of my soul to “correction”.

Her aim is protection—I know this— 

and yet she is wrong.

Walking in the wake of suffering,

guided by old wounds,

she intends to shield me from pain once more,

blind to one grave truth—

for I ward off less than I lose—

survive more than I ever live.

She is my mother, and I am her daughter—  

or so we think.

Yet she wears my face.

Beside each other on the bed, 

I rub her shoulder, 

caress her hair— 

for she’s never seen such tenderness before.

Her mirror only reveals the warts;

but icons have never feared broken faces.

And then the Bridegroom comes down to her,

He woos her to the pulpit—

where truth reaches what mirrors never could,

and wisdom settles softly upon her tongue.

No longer guarding every wound,

scales fall softly from her eyes.

She learns another task:

to guide in truth,

no longer by the whispers of old lies.