D’s Bones

I made my worst mistakes
because I was so afraid
of being alone.

It was unusual for my mother,
then in her 80s, to name a personal
demon.

She sat to my left on the couch,
my grown daughter to the right.

Certain as a strand of DNA,
the named fear snaked through
us. It left the same steely flavor
in our bellies,
and we each hung on
as
best
we
could.

(No. 60 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Well, there it is, the likelihood of hereditary fear–passed on in the subtle ways of culture and socialization.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)