16 January 2013
One of my few attempts at non-rhyming (more towards free-verse) poetry.
I don't know what drips from my mother's fingers while she sleeps.
I thought, once, that it might be sweat Great drops of salty water mopping up the kitchen floor Mornings of 5 a.m. breakfast and 6 o'clock bus School all day, lunch, work, dinner, stories, bed Sickness in the night, vomit until 2:00, start again at 5 a.m. But it's more than that I thought, also, that it might be blood Crimson pearls drip, drip, dripping to the bathroom floor Little baby Emma who never joined us, despite mother's dreams My bleeding skull or severed thumb, a leg torn knee to hip, nails in feet The turkey still flapping it's feathers ten minutes after it stopped breathing But it's more than that I thought, too, that it might be love Golden orbs pooling in the carpet on the living room floor Clothing for 1,2,3,4,5 children and a father before a pair of shoes for her Birthday breakfast in bed; eggs, juice, milk, cake and baby stories Graduation night, sitting in the front chairs, crying, cheering and praising But it's more than that I thought, finally, that it must be life Colorless puffs, breathed up by everyone Feeding our aura's, egos, body and soul with herself Shaping and molding us to be better and more than she hoped for herself Taking the vomit, the nails, the tears and giving back health, wholeness, hope And it's exactly that.
My Mother's Hands • Opuss № I