Mother's Love: A Poetry Collection

The Punching Bag

Three feet tall is hardly a good size
for a punching bag.
The balance is off, it messes up your form.
Maybe that’s why you get so angry
every time you hit it
and it wobbles and wobbles,
then eventually it topples over
onto the linoleum floor that it hits a thousand times
​
Three feet tall is hardly a good size
for a punching bag.
My balance was always off
and I must have messed up your form.
Is that why you were so angry?
When I would stumble and trip
and hit the linoleum floor
that met my face a thousand times

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Isabelle Call
is an author and poet from British Columbia. Her work often focuses on traumas
which she has faced in her own life. Drawing on her personal experiences and weaving them into a work of fiction she hopes to help others through their similar experiences.

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Self Portrait

You wreak of envy,
Of fear and hatred.
An eye of daggers
waiting to pierce
their next unknowing victim
​
You drip of it from your pores,
Malice and spite.
Feelings all too familiar to you.
and those sharpened edges
that stare back at me in mirrors

My Mother's Daughter

I am my mother’s daughter.
Wreaking havoc on everything I touch.
Consuming all those who surround me
in their innocence and naivety

I am my mother’s daughter.
Blasting air from my lungs which carries
words of hatred and pain,
anger red hot, and misdirected

I am my mother’s daughter.
I’ll drown you and rob you,
beat you black and blue,
consume you until you are nothing
more than an empty husk filled with sand
​
I am my mother’s daughter.
Though I do not want to be.