Hat Pegs (Poetry)

I know something about mothers — I was one,
am one still, but in theory only
since she showed me how
she didn’t need or want to own me now.

She did what I did — slipped away —
broke cleanly free, reducing my identity
and became herself. My mother never mourned
like I mourn — every day.

My mother didn’t feel that loss
or think she counted less
when I was gone — I cannot think
she ever sat in my old room and cried.

She’s never had my photograph around
or kept my early scribbings saved and boxed,
no trace — I don’t exist for her except
those awkward times when others mention me.

I don’t match up as mother, daughter, friend it seems
I dropped into that unmarked gap between
when blood’s cheap hat pegs snapped —
my frayed-out ribbon loop too red for them.