A Motherless House

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I live in a Motherless house,
A broken home. 
How it happened I cannot learn. 

When I had words enough to ask 
“Where is my Mother?”
No one seemed to know,
And no one thought it strange 
That no one else knew either. 

I live in a Motherless house.
They are good to me here,
But I find that no kindly 
Patriarchal care eases the pain. 

I yearn for the day 
Someone will look at me and say, 
“You certainly do look like your Mother.” 

I walk the rooms, 
Search the closets,
Look for something that might 
Have belonged to her—
A letter, a dress, a chair. 
Would she not have left a note? 

I close my eyes 
And work to bring back her touch, her face.
Surely there must have been 
A Motherly embrace 
I can call back for comfort. 
I live in a Motherless house,
Motherless and without a trace. 

Who could have done this? 
Who would tear an unweaned infant 
From its Mother’s arms 
And clear the place of every souvenir? 

I live in a Motherless house.
I lie awake and listen always for the word
That never comes, but might.
I bury my face 
In something soft as a breast. 

I am a child— 
Crying for my Mother in the night.