When I knew her, she was the age of
nonsense and she knew how to move.
Jazz funk, soul or reggae, didn’t matter
and to top it off, she always had the patter.
Why is it that the most maternal
are deprived of the joy of giving birth?
She never really got over that, even
when she adopted her sons as babies.
She’s a great mother to her boys
but in her eyes I see no joy
or lust for life; in fact she looks sad and
heavy laden, not the girl I knew and loved.
We are like acquaintances,
not the best of friends of many years.
Once so close, now miles apart in distance,
each shaped by the shedding of our tears