Things Mothers Shared

I look at the pale, smooth,

lack of experience,

waiting for untold stories 

to be written in colours and lines,

for parts to swell or shrink,

deepen or become delicate,

each change a betrayal of movements.

And I hear a distant whisper.

I don't want this face to become crinkled paper,

that doesn't keep secrets.

I don't want experience to be flouted to the public,

by the softness of a belly,

the gait of a walk.

I want to guard what's covered,

reveal to the few,

not to the many.

Know that from this day on, each step 

will be a step away,

but give time to gentle silence,

it will spin threads

to bind you.