The Irony of Mothers and Daughters

My mother left me young,
in the dark. In not
much of a nest, my
child-heart searching to get back
to her forgetting arms.
My mother was the hollow-huntress,
starving for a love no child can give.
She took from me what she longed for.
Stole it back--
during the million nights of cold and black
that were my childhood--
her own girlish needs in mind,
not mine.
For years her "Poor Me" shrine
kept my wolves away.