A poem about motherhood.
anger did not
look good on me.
Neither did straight hair,
jiggly thighs,
bangs,
or the color red.
That one I made peace with.
She filled my plate
without asking,
refilled it when I was full,
watching,
judging.
Approval granted
in each plate cleaned.
Disapproval displayed
in each plate cleaned.
Did I shape my children
the same way,
opinions made as fact?
Was there a mold for each,
a quiet blueprint,
a shape I poured them into,
shaping them
one chisel at a time?
Birthing should not mean
I hold lifetime rights
to the sculpture I made.
I learned
to ask
before filling their plates,
to let them decide
when they’d had enough.
The sculpture was never mine to finish.
The chisel was always theirs to hold.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Read 9 times
Written on 2026-03-31 at 13:57
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The Sculpture
My mother’s judgment:anger did not
look good on me.
Neither did straight hair,
jiggly thighs,
bangs,
or the color red.
That one I made peace with.
She filled my plate
without asking,
refilled it when I was full,
watching,
judging.
Approval granted
in each plate cleaned.
Disapproval displayed
in each plate cleaned.
Did I shape my children
the same way,
opinions made as fact?
Was there a mold for each,
a quiet blueprint,
a shape I poured them into,
shaping them
one chisel at a time?
Birthing should not mean
I hold lifetime rights
to the sculpture I made.
I learned
to ask
before filling their plates,
to let them decide
when they’d had enough.
The sculpture was never mine to finish.
The chisel was always theirs to hold.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Read 9 times
Written on 2026-03-31 at 13:57
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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 by Melinda K Zarate Latest textsThe SentinelThe Sculpture Burnished Her Colors, My Joy Before She Slept |
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