Jennifer Mills Kerr

The Annunciation of an Alcoholic’s Daughter 
 
And the angel said…
 
You must escape your mother’s shroud. The time is now. Your divine family cannot bear to see you on your knees inside a dirty cell, scrubbing at filth and piss, the endless mess of an addict. What crime did you commit? 
 
No use in arguing. You’ll never make her prison nice and clean. Drop the tattered rag. Dare yourself to stand. To shatter the familiar can be agony–but dearest daughter, what further harm can come? Already you have survived the Underworld, neglected, orphaned. Now take my hand. Imagine yourself another woman. Hold tight. 
 
**
 
Rescue
 
The windows in that kitchen were black mirrors– I’m four, I’m ten, I’m nineteen–yet my mother, unchanged, seated at the kitchen table, gazing at my father’s empty chair. Cool glass against her lips, she kisses heat. Whisky spice, a flame behind her eyes, sunrise at the cusp of night. Then she slips out to sea, flotsam or a torn plastic raft, nothing that could carry me. And sometimes she’s a burnt tree, skeletal and gaunt. When young, I scavenged for wildflowers from the smouldering ash, palms blistering; how painful hope was to me then. To be her daughter, like pulling a corpse across miles of ocean, my breath rasping like a dragged chain. For many, many years, I believed that if I let her go, she would drown. 
 
**

Estrangement
 
A flock of geese glances overhead, flying geometries I cannot read. The damp ground seeps into my feet, but I don’t move, transfixed by their flight, traveling long distances, the way words sometimes do. My birth family, two thousand miles away, the land between us, parched and rocky. I listen to our estrangement. Perhaps there’s a hidden message, not yet seen or heard. But nothing comes, not even goodbye. Only the fluttering horizon of birds, fading, then swallowed into distance.
 
**

Sobriety 
 
The sky, blooming with clouds, and I, outstretched on the chill-damp ground, beseech any hidden blue to break through. The windchimes by the back door, chattering, bickering bells. Another storm is coming, but I stay, my heart, a black stump rooted to earth. Inside, the familiar dimensions of my living room encourage drinking; every rationalization shaped by doorways, eased by my soft leather chair. There’s my former self, curled inside the old ritual, grasping a glass of red wine, back to the window. How very safe she seems, sequestered inside a fog of inebriation, mind shuttered to afternoon storms. I could go back to her, but she’s not a faithful mate, a beautiful liar, a chocolate covered spider. The cold seeps into my spine, the ruffled clouds blur from tears. Alcohol, an unrequited love. There’s nothing else but to embrace sky.  

**
​
Menopause Dream
 
I find myself wearing a silk white blouse, unfamiliar to me, the kind my mother wore. A mere whisper of fabric, transparent and soft, a sky sheathed by clouds. I twist the cuffs’ careful stitches, embroidered like family trees, only now realizing I pulled out the needlework years before. My threads, estranged and orphaned, upended roots seeking new ground. This territory, a pale and quiet winter, once terrifying, now slips easily over my skin, the silver caress of wind. 

**
 
Jennifer Mills Kerr loves mild winters, anything Jane Austen, and the raucous coast of Northern California. Mornings, she leads adult creative writing groups online; afternoons, she tutors young writers. After twenty years publishing fiction, she has recently “come out” as a poet, publishing recently in One Art Poetry and The Inflectionist Review. Say hello at www.JenniferMillsKerr.com.