My mother now stares at a sea of nothingness.
Her age is a restless sound wavering by the second.
My mother’s voice reminds me of the warm blood of my brother when the swords fell.
Young and light, I ran to a distance, his blood covering my eyes.
Father was a fading image dying with our enemies
dying with the earth.
Mother kneeling under sun bore her sons in washing agony.
My mother holds my hand strongly if the noise is loud, when a car roars,
When the plates jam.
She traces pain on my skin, colours her stories in my mind.
she jumps out of her sleep like a thought.
Her eyes are wider by the years.
The metal in her voice is like she is beckoning battle again.
The gun under her bed gets heavier
like the grief of her sons.
Every greeting is a warning
Good morning- did you check the gates?
Good night- stay awake somehow.
Welcome home- did you watch your back?
My mother is a synonym for surrender,
the eyes that fell when her sons crumbled at her feet.
Now, her silence is a burden that grows on my back.
tonight I am weary and we have refused to swallow the bones of the past.
Hmmm this is deep
I love the way you carefully painted this whole thing around the mother.
but the part that got me the most is the bones of the past.