Mothers

my grandmother was born with Texas grass in her mouth
and hands the size of pennies, copper in the sunlight
she was always a scrap of a girl
her classmates teased her for it
so she let them -- she became little and sweet
a silver-hearted pixie with a drawl she still carries

they said her mother was a sick woman
a paranoid schizophrenic who spoke to the walls
I suppose it is only natural for a mother's mind to break
after giving birth to two daughters too sick to live well.
my grandmother must have wept for her sisters
more times than she could count
but she learned to forget.
she shared a name with Shirley Temple and figured
she oughta smile just as big and pretty
if she wanted to get by

so she cracked her lips wide enough
to catch the eye of the handsomest athlete in school
my grandfather had hands the size of trash can lids
and eyes like Paul Newman (if he'd been a good Southern boy)
he still holds records in track and field
and I do not think it is a coincidence
that my grandmother married someone
who could run away faster than anyone else

my mother was born five years after a sister
who was more fire than love, and she spent her life paying
for wounds she never inflicted
my mother was born with scars on her skin
narrow hips and hair that craved wind
she barrel raced and wrestled boys to the ground
as her mother and father nursed her sister's anger
and she was too much spirit and too much fight
and not enough sorry, and my grandmother's second daughter
was so beautiful
with sunned skin the copper
of her own tiny hands

I am born from farm-raised women
strong and unsure and kind
and terrified to pass their hurts
through their wombs
to their daughters