It never was my goal to amaze.
Truly, it is impossible for I to amaze.
A place-holder mother like myself.
Daughter of a job-juggler,
who shrills like a harpy to I,
and the three devil-running younglings.

That is no family life.
Then you ask of a father.
I tell you, he is as angry as
the woman.
Yet you may know him,
He lacks a limb that holds him up.

So how may I amaze?
Still people now tell me:
“Kaitlyn, everyone can amaze,”
But not me. Not in Rome.

I am not proud of that story.

*****
My battles, young as I am,
have been many.
Those friendly-faced fiends with whom I fought,
Were those held dearest.
Smile-granters they were,
For a time.

I fought them with a sharp-sided tongue.
Razored edged words and my eyes.
Oh, how they glittered with venomous tears!

You may say what you like of those battles.
But you were not there when I shattered at the end.
Not a drop of their blood to mark their defeat, they went away.

I cannot say i’m proud to have won.

Then I went to battle myself.
Those wars were never meant
And, yet, they were the hardest to fight.
No blood loss may vanquish that foe.
*****
It was a new battle I sought.
One where it was not my words
Not my accusations nor my faults.
It was the words of another woman I spoke.

I spoke like my child, unborn,
was killing me.

I screeched openly the ignorance
Of my own kind.

I ranted as a women who’d never seen her Lords grave.
But was happy about it.


My heart beat brutally,
My brain, overwhelmed, sang a headache.
Time passed ever slowly.
My foes and I?
We became friendly with one another.


I did not win that battle.
I stood among those who did,
a runner-up, a place-holder.

The onlookers spoke,
Different words, the same meaning:
“You were amazing,”
A praise granted to me,
But a lie.

I was not amazing
the poets were.
That accomplishment I may not bear proudly.

****
I should not say I’m not a poet myself.
My companions find this amazing.
Amazing that, sometimes, my brain
spills words in an aesthetic order.
Those faces I’ve come to know
Ask in hushed excitement:

“How did you write this? What is this talent?”

I can never answer them.
I do not see what they do.
Can’t anyone be a word-chaser
And dress up their lines
In party gowns that flash and dazzle?


I can not be so bold as to be proud of such poetry.
Even that, it seems, falls short of amazing.

****

I do not slaughter, hopelessly,
those I do not understand.
Nor do I win battles of wit.
I do not flaunt a talent I do not believe.

Those things should not make me amazing.


There is a promise I have held,
one of the most amazing things I know.

Never will allow a child, like I am now,
To believe that they are not amazing.

Every over-looked talent
I will dress in lace and gold
And place in the persons view,
Until they recognize it as worthy.

Never will I allow a child,
to tread in my own graceless steps,
and fight themselves with no victor to speak of.
Then if they do fight, it will not be alone.

And as I come to to terms with myself,
That place-holder I so despise,
I will embrace my title, with it embracing
those who may not know a mother.
Or a hug,
A gentle touch or kind words.

I will embrace those who are not babes,
Yet still mewl for recognition.

*****
I am not amazing now.
My battles meaningless.
My current accomplishment petty.
This mere talent insignificant,
And no origins to be proud of.

This is not me.
One day, I will be amazing.

When I mother the motherless children I yearn for.
When I drag forth the self-pickers, who loath in the dark.

I’ll be, what some of us call, amazing.