Burnt

“Mother,” is not 
This strong match
 
Of small sparks
Commanding warmth
 
But cold eyes unseen
In darker rooms
 
Close the door
To my room, light
 
A candle,
Not for light,
 
But to scribble left
Over the ledger.
 
“Write me poetry;
Pretty, for all to read”
 
“It’s too bad, you
Were born here-
 
A smear of ash
That never belongs-”
 
Illiteracy turns
To propaganda.
 
And so lucky to
Be Her daughter,
 
Someday I’ll
Understand
 
I only get one
Mother, remind me
 
Who’s a little
Burnt, a gift
 
From “Mother”
She told them all
 
I heard them
Say I died
 
In the fire:
And walked away
 
Burnt