Nicole Brooks
The Mother Speaks
I shrink to a diamond
My daughter palms. I’m squat
As the littlest Russian doll.
She relishes my dispersion
Of light, holds me to the
Morning sun. Secures me
In a golden ring’s claws,
Bands her broken love
Vein, marrying my pain. I
Weigh on her hand. She
Springs me from the prongs,
Clicks me into a locket
Worn against her chest.
It is too much.
She hot glues me
To a magnet. A day of
Holding coupons
Fast to the fridge —
She sees it is wrong.
Places me in the Black
Forest cuckoo clock.
Wooden tick until the
Caw. Her friends question
Her cradling the carved
Time piece, swaddled
In a sweater or scarf. She
Sings dear mother, dear
Mother. A steady mark.
Again she sets me free,
Forgets me
Around the house like
Keys. I offer her heat,
I separate white light
Into spectrum. She tucks
Me under the bed sheet.
I leave marbled bruise
Trails on her breasts,
Knees, in her thrashing
Against me. Dawn finds her
Digging in the tangle.
In a cold rain she throws me
Down the well. Empty
Clatter. From here
I tell you this story.
I’ve done it. I’m clear.
Nicole Brooks is a writer and editor in Lafayette, Indiana. Her poems have appeared in Minola Review, The Indianapolis Review, Barren Magazine, and Anti-Heroin Chic. She earned her MFA in poetry from Butler University, and served as poetry editor of Booth. Read more at nicolekbrooks.com.