Your fingers bleed
from digging
at the intractable knot
at your core.
The anger,
the hideous heirloom
that your mother,
always teetering on rage,
passed on to you.
You attack
this knot
as if it were
the sinew
of your mother’s words,
gnarled
but strong enough
to choke your joy.
Slowly,
over the years,
it unravels,
a Medusa’s head
of flailing strands
sucking air.