Patricia Whiting Fine Arts

Nursed at
enigma’s breast.
Weaned on
her cryptic
language.
Silences
louder than
spoken words.

Unlike the deaf,
who read
their mother’s lips,
have words spelled out
on palms,
or signed;
I was supposed to read
my mother’s mind.

There were clues
to deciphering
her language:
its parts of speech
the sigh and smile,
the smirk and frown,
the furrowed brow.

When I learned to
read between the lines,
I came to understand
her unspoken
language of love.