THE WORK

Your mouth, my mama said, will get you in trouble one day.
She knew me well, even then, hand on hip not at all defiant.
I should tell you--she was smiling when she said it. Proud of 
the daughter she was raising, teaching me to ask questions,
to fight for the weak among us--mind you, I was a runt of a child,
90 lbs soaking wet, under 5 feet. But what I've never been
is a weakling. I refuse to back down. But I have learned the
art of separating, of retreat, of licking wounds, and drinking
hot mint tea with honey and lime in it as comfort, a minor cure
for what ails me. And I know how to love, even when it hurts
to trust, to let go and to open wide my arms. I can see the
knife coming--you don't have to stab me in the back. My
heart catches the blade plenty of times. And I just keep
loving because--that's the work. To love the world and
all who are in it, even the most vile--especially when I 
deem myself chief among sinners. My mama taught me:
baby, you gotta love yourself, even the worst parts of you.
And I confess, my chief sin is not loving the worst or
the best of me some days. But that, I know, is the work.

© Valerie Bridgeman
December 14, 2013