My mother was the falcon,
trained to the fist and flights of fancy,
and I the feckless pigeon
or dove, left to her mercy.

My mother was the falcon,
preening on her perch, eyeing
me like I was some wretched
mouse-child, cringing and crying

for no good reason.  She seized
upon my small words, unwrapped
them as gifts to be dissected
and left lying limp in my lap.

I could never hoodwink her.  She’d
freeze my resolve with a single
penetrating glare from her one
good eye, her magic monocle.

She’d fly, however, to her
husband’s hand, run through the gauntlet
of his demands, drawing blood,
stooping like a marionette.

My mother was a falcon
for all those years of her second
marriage, not knowing a day
untethered, off the leash, to the end.