by Ruth Cheeseman

Created on: March 17, 2008

THE WICKED STEPMOTHER

What does it matter if I'm dwarfed by her shadow
Sharing a title that should never be shared.
The word 'mother' is sacred, not to be viewed lightly.
I watched her depart to her pleasures,
Leaving faces etched with tears and fears
And a stranger to do her work.

What does it matter that I started to love fiercely
And covet what belongs to her alone-

Wanted to nurse the unnursable
And feel the kicks of her children's feet beneath my breast
Yet, the "MOTHER" title I share will always be second best
Despite my love, my work, my joy, my pain
A different kind of labor, but a labor all the same.

What does it matter that tears flowed
Mine mingled with theirs, mixed with anger
And frustration-theirs and mine
At the cost of family loss
Paid by hers as well as my own
On weekends, when they became hers once again
As she exercised her parental right.
Only to return the precious cargo to my door
So I could once again prove my motherhood.

What does it matter when I look at pictures
Of familiar faces from before I was
And see no history of mine there.
That's when the wounds are the barest
Studying their faces and seeing the flood
Of memories in their eyes of her and what was.
I sit-empty-wanting mine to be as loved
A memory as hers is-yet knowing
Knowing I'm still proving, feeling rejected
By the remnant that made up her family.

What does it matter when I hold a child of theirs
A new generation to cherish and love
And see the reflection of her, not me
And know the loss I will feel again
From loving what is hers, but should be mine,
If only through time.
Knowing that when babies age, explanations are needed
As to who I am and where my name should be
Placed on the family tree-falsely placed-
Where her name should be.
(I state that apologetically)

When the fear of her return becomes a reality
As her pleasures end
Her filled with stories of long ago,
Of love, laughter, of her motherhood
Of histories I would wish to possess
And their need blinding them
For they want her love so bad
That stories of her love for them will satisfy
And realities of my love will leave them empty.

What does it matter when I hear the word "Mother"
That I think of her who has the right
Leaving me the right to pretend
Despite the fact that I raised them
I'll never be their mother in the end.

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