Parable
       

God as a mother:
                He raises us
until we're ready and then

lets us alone. Or He warns us to shy away,
to run from His house. Or once while
He's washing dishes after another fight,

we, only 12 years old at the time,
threaten that we're leaving as soon as
we turn 18. We're out-of-here we saythe

words all scrunched together like
one big smack in His face. Even though
it wasn't His fault. When He dies, we mourn

Him. We worry with where to toss the ashes,
argue about where the ashes are inside
the house, roll our eyes that our sister

certainly lost them. We planned to make
amulets or charms and slide them down
chains that rest above our hearts or on our chests

at least. Now and again, our minds wander.
We muse at how we exited His Body. His belly
made into a cat's mouth. Naval/nose. Dimpled scar

a philtrum overtop a split lip. Our faces hangdog,
our names the first survivors on His death notice.

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Copyright © 2017 Jennie Malboeuf All rights reserved
from Prairie Schooner
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission