The Daughter of her Dreams
Looking through the eyes of time, late,
In the mirror on the way to work
Powdering eyes that have lost sleep
What does she see?
A million moments coming to be…to be…?
Dare she look at me in the back seat?
Dare I talk of dreams that echo back
Similarity to those that, for her, may never be?
I’ll keep what I’ve written on the sheet
And stare at the yellow marks on the concrete.
I have yet to become but she,
Grief-cursed and coerced by pitiless legalities,
Became caretaker, silent acher, dream maker,
Victim of quiet tragedies – your heart breakers –
Working through misery with sweat at the brow
Calluses at the fingers, late nights every week,
And how her back locks, pains, and bows now
All for what dreams I may have found.
But places she dreamed to go,
Lives she dreamed she would touch,
She left behind because there was no time
To catch up with bills that always seemed
To sprint at rapid speed, giant leaps ahead
Of what pace she could manage.
No time for painting again,
No money for sightseeing,
No heart for the nostalgia in softball play,
No energy nor fulfilled dreams
For meeting others in need.
She lingers in deep sleep.
She swallowed the hard pill of defeat
Aborted dreams in infancy
That could have granted her motherhood
And reassured her through aging
Like good children would.
Looking through the eyes of time,
I’ll try to wake early and
Remember your dreams
And sing to you in every melody
And thank you in every verse of poetry.
© 2014. Asha Gowan. All Rights Reserved.