My Mother is Alive and Well

Here it is–proof that I’ve been hearing my mother’s voice in my mind for at least a decade. This is actually the first poem I had published in 2008. My mother’s voice has been a running theme ever since. My mom wasn’t really impressed with this poem at the time–she used to take my writing way too personally. She’s learned to relax and laugh about it now.

Here it is–proof that I’ve been hearing my mother’s voice in my mind for at least a decade. This is actually the first poem I had published in 2008. My mother’s voice has been a running theme ever since. My mom wasn’t really impressed with this poem at the time–she used to take my writing way too personally. She’s learned to relax and laugh about it now.

I didn’t find out the poem had been published until 2011, when Joe did a Google search on my name. I thought he was making it all up until he read  “…a crimson shade of guilt.”  Then, I knew this was my poem.

You Didn’t know about the publication of your poem?

You might be wondering why in the world I didn’t know In Medias Res published my poem.  See, I haven’t always been good at listening to my mother. I had moved and didn’t leave a forwarding address. There are two lessons to learn here: First, it’s good to Google search your name now and then, and, second, always pay the money to have your mail forwarded if you move.

I Killed My Mother

I suppose I should confess that it was not her life I ended                                                                                                    but her voice that droned on in my head,                                                                                                    colouring my actions a crimson shade of guilt                                                                                                     no matter how much sea or land lay between us                                                                                                  at the time,

I pled manslaughter, self-defense, self-preservation

picture my joy at being unshackled                                                                                                                          and at liberty to roam pasture and field at will                                                                                         imagining that I would no longer hear her frightened voice cautioning me                                   cornering me into resentful submission

The end of considering Mother’s advice                                                                                                                    no more conflict between my brainwashed mind and my body’s desires

I plead insanity. Contamination of the mind.

The day I killed my mother                                                                                                                                         was the day I understood                                                                                                                                              my darkest fear is a reality.                                                                                                                                              In my own voice I have found Mother’s

One of the best parts of re-reading this poem is knowing how much the time and the poetry class I took last semester have greatly improved my poetry skills. I can sort of see why my mom thought the poem was a little harsh, and I do apologize for that. (Please note that the writer(s) in your life write a lot of fiction, so don’t take it personally.)

As I used to tell my sweet, parent-hating grade seven students–we all become our parents. The harder we resist, the more like them we become. I loved watching their almost-adult faces crumple.

Aren’t you a lot like your mom or dad? I’d love to know. Please leave a comment.

**Here’s a link to the original publication of “I Killed My Mother”: http://stmcollege.ca/imr/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/imr-spring-2008.pdf