Fragile glass sheets
sliding down the rocky mountain -
that's how your mother's life has been;
always on the verge.
She has more twisted ankles
than steps on the ground -
Losing hairpins, and books and bracelets
and people,
raging all the time, furious and impatient,
she could never carry herself.
It is not a miracle that she carried you
Within her
without losing,
It is her sheer will.
Now that you are here
she is back into the rocky life
of breaking and losing,
of anger and ferocity.
You, my child, carry half
your mother's burdens and her outrage.
You are your mother's daughter
You will carry her well.
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