Mrs. M.P.

She did not send me my voice,
nor the words, nor the choices
I made to render sentences
in metered rhythms (or
cadences within the thoughts),
dance with lettered feet
across the empty sheets.
She did not read for me,
nor choose the books
of prose and poems loose
within my world to grasp.
The only willful task
she made me own
was hope, that sped my
questions and confusions
of my inner to the outer world,
and bade me throw emotions
to the page unfurled.
The dream to know once made
(all strangers now my family),
the yearning of their hearts
echoing in stanzas start;
that parade we all construct
alone for one another,
because we must;
and laid like mother’s milk
upon the lips we use to speak,
our trust in wordy sentiment
belies our need to be,
each of us together and unique.