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womanform

Writer: roundziesroundzies

This is our mother-daughter-women story.


Our story is one of careening through lifetimes

like undestroyed blast particles,

reuniting this time around as opposing forces.


Birth in a small Los Angeles hospital,

you holding me against your chest

like a beating heart, my body your body.


And after 18 years

barely meeting eyes

across a devastating crevasse,

here we are.


You, a ghost woman in your own home

while your family selfishly disintegrates

into themselves.

Me, a desperate ghost daughter

bitter in my never-enoughness.


I don’t know how we go on like this. But we do.


We do.


Until we don’t.


It takes 35 years

of barely balancing

on the untenable strain

of our bloodline

until at last

I see you.


When my boyfriend dies

and I find his body,

you tell me about your gay brother’s suicide,

how he shot himself in the head,

and how as a lonely Jewish girl in Texas,

you would lie in the grass

and leave your body

so you could be your own friend.


How you followed a man to Los Angeles,

joined a cult and stayed for 10 years

even though he refused to marry you.

How you began a liberated woman

who rode horses bareback and said “fuck”

and skinny dipped while stoned

and ended up a soccer mom in suburbia

driving car-pool and wearing pearls.


How you hated the float

from one vapid expectation

to the next

without feeling alive,

shriveling until the sight of everything

pale and perfect

made you scream

a silent Stepford-wife death.

How you struggled to balance

womanhood

motherhood

wifehood,

and isn’t every woman

born with the weight of that imbalance on her back?

How I flailed between

childhood

daughterhood

adolescence

without capacity to look up

or reach out


and steady myself, ourselves.

But here we are,

on even footing,

leveled, our story woven

into the greater yarn of mystery.

One of careening through lifetimes

like undestroyed blast particles;

at last, into reunited forces,

into woman form.




 
 

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