I know this nonchalance you speak of,
a kind of half-blaming,
confusion of youth.
Must be a mother-daughter thing
meant to break hearts open
like sorrow or ecstasy;
a mixed plate from Pandora’s kitchen,
perspective being all
as I know now, having had enough time
Instinctively protective, I raised them far
from males in my family posing
the greatest threat to flowering women.
I did not possess the maturity to guard them
from my own crumbling illusions; enmeshed
in the dramatic possessing the uninformed,
struggling for clarity amidst an emotional morass
I could not, at that time,
conceive a way out of.
Do we ever truly realize how lost we are?
I could claim awareness in this moment,
though twenty, thirty years down the road,
will I look back at tracks laid down
in the sands of existence, wondering
at the far-reaching implications
of my own ignorance?