there is this creature called
‘mother’.
she is all hands. she is all giving,
never taking,
she is wide open eyes, wide open arms,
wide open palms—
and when she whispers “come back home,”
it’s her chest she points to.
there are wounds there,
but she has grown flowers in them.
there is a beating heart, whispering dreams,
but she silences them
so they do not disturb our sleep.
there is soaking, wet pain
but she never hangs it out to dry.
there is this creature called mother,
and she is always awake before the sun is,
breathing sweet smelling life into the morning air.
she is awake even when the moon is,
and i think it turns a little paler each night,
always jealous of her beauty.
there is this creature called mother,
and her hands are never soft.
all callouses, all scars
from the nights she spent carving us homes
out of mountains of loneliness.
there is this creature called mother,
and i wonder if she is what an angel would look like
if it sold its wings for bread
to feed the hungry.
there is this creature called mother,
and each time i broke her heart, she made me
another.

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