Reconcilliation
Today my mother is a dragonfly. Her pained eyes behind meshy confessional screens, blink-
yellow-blink-green. She shows up differently this time, no demons, pills or empty bottles.
The inner girl twists in my womb. Time hasn’t righted history, but punishing dead wrongs
seems heartless. I am listening.
Purgatory sentence served, but pain of mine still burning her. It’s evidence of conscience. She’s
perched in the garden I’ve colored by hand, all broken bones and bloody knuckles.
Can angels, can I, make space?
“A little, a little …” My skin tightens on old wounds.
The inner girl is gunshy.
“What you need will not come back.”
Anger left me long ago, but understanding’s also vacant. Armed guards still stalk the danger,
the hurt still holds out hope.
Three days later, she returns, half dead but here and breathing. Her wings crutch inward. Her
stance is still, unpressing, as if accepting all due fate.
I close my eyes to see her purest self, a cake before the cream. Fragile layers white-washed to
hide crumbling and keep sweet.
On my knees before an insect, I will my chest to heave, “Okay.” Time cannot right history, but
can afford us better ways.
The darkness ends with me, but I hope her soul keeps rising. We don’t choose God the same
way, but we all call Her when we’re dying.
About the Author
Alise M. Edgcomb is a publicist, ghostwriter, and poet focused on the nuances of parenthood, generational unlearning, and spiritual awakening. Her words have appeared in outlets from Fortune to Forbes, though she only recently began releasing work under her own byline. She is a mother of two and stand-in mom to four siblings who enjoys growing her own food and debating the less popular side of any argument.
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