Jennifer Ruth Jackson
We are interchangeable, have no names, as we struggle
in the cocoon created by mother’s arms.
She repeats the adage of oppression strengthening
and plants the pinprick razors in our backs, already
slick with sweat, now blood, too.
Her tuneless hum hammers into our skulls, guiding
the journey carved into our flesh as she describes our wings
in the firelight (supposedly tucked softly by her elbows).
Our heads, resting near mother’s own scars and flightless form
nod, never believing we’d someday mimic the path of pain
upon our trusting daughters.