Changes

Adolescence

By Nita Penfold

At night while she sleeps
I unravel the rope that binds us;
jute rubs its rough fibers into my skin.
I loosen one strand at a time
picking it apart with torn fingernails.

Watching her in sleep, I remember
that newborn moon-face, dark cornsilk hair;
compact body resting well-molded
to the comfort of my soft belly.
She would awaken, wide eyes surprised
at the distance traveled from protective waters.

In the morning, she takes her stance.
We are eye-to-eye, rope to rope, a tug of war.
Her newly-breasted body stands stiffly away.
She throws her whole weight from me,
every muscle anticipating flight--
from the shackles she sees me hold
from the darkness that passes unspoken between us.

Once I was where she now stands, struggling against
the bond, pulling away from the mirror
in my mother's eyes, sweat clouding my sight.
Now I tug at my child less and less, terrified
she might end sprawling in the mud, afraid
of her reflex hatred, that coiled mistrust of freedom.

Fierce, proud of each inch of victory,
she seeks what I am only not finding
hopes for answers she thinks I can give.
I let the rope go slack a little at a time,
and take courage from her triumphant face.