This Voice My Mother Gave to Me

I’m a soldier of her anger,
every scream, a command.
Always felt I was in danger,
even under her gentle hand.

Confounded by her kindness,
soft-spoken, I’d try to be.
Never dared to leave reminders
of what she saw in me.

This voice my mother gave to
me never fit their fits of rage.
Never fit how they would argue
”I’m here, I’m center stage.”

This voice my mother gave to me,
propagated to family,
with bark too soft to blend in
can never join the tree.

She told me once it soothed her,
the one who usually holler’d.
Her own voice soft and gentle,
almost like my mother’s.

I wish I could remember
the voice her mother gave her.
If only it had been softer,
she might’ve been a savior.

I wish I knew what it was
she meant by her confession.
Was she trying once more to start again?
Was she clear of her depression?

Was it a clearing of a conscious?
Was it a momentary lapse?
Was it a moment like when Pontious
showed his God his ass?

Here I’m stuck with questions
of which I’ll have no answer,
for this voice my mother gave me
falters at lines of tension.

This world we live in is far too cruel,
I never thought she’d mention
how this voice my mother gave to me
shifted her dimension.

The voice her mother gave her
will never match with mine,
and yet, I’m always looking for
the moments where we’ll be fine.