Acceptance

When acceptance

becomes the word I must cling to

like a newborn to a mother

why couldn’t mine

have taught me sooner?

 

Waters flow

like nothing has changed

yet Sun and Moon promise

a new dawn will emerge

if I let it–

they let me feel

because they have never felt

themselves.

 

It is luck, I suppose,

for the hearts I wear like armor

to be more protective

than my own

pale Hispanic skin,

the body fighting

itself

it’s been years

and only now

did I bump into the word

acceptance

it is to feel

it

the four corners of a table,

each chair,

each pile of rays and souls

floating from an inner window

can see for themselves.

 

My mother has, too.

 

I suppose I can accept that.

 

November 26, 2014

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