I have no child,
only a dead mother
and her Irish sweater.
I sink into its tight knit,
warm as her arms
around me.
She visits my dreams,
tells me her secrets—
my uterus is a tomb,
my child is madness,
voices I can’t reason away.
Her madness is my legacy.
Her thumbprint is forever stitched
on my brow.
I am my mother
I am my child
by Patty Cole
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