Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
There are Hallelujahs in my body
Songs of praise for all the days
That I have woken up to the smell
Of your face.
This is love, this completeness
In and outside of you
That I look forward to the short notes
You send with your flowers
"This is for you, for having such beautiful hands"
You are my escape, the crook of your arm; a holiday
Rest is the shape of your eyes on a sunday.
They gave us the river to drink
when our bellies were full with rain
and when we refused
they said our pride would be the death of us
Our shoulders were burdened with blame
with the sound of voices dictating
what form our bodies should take
They asked us to climb the mountains
to straddle the hills on misshapen legs
Whe we crawled as far from them as we could
they said our cowardice would keep us stagnant
These are not lies, they told us
this is the truth but we have painted it
the colour of our thoughts
Now we are sinking
too unskilled to swim, too heavy to float
Our bodies become one with the ocean
before they throw the ropes, asking us to hold on
Our hands flail with what the water has left of our faith
Ofcourse we are dead before our hands make it.
Her mother still cooks for her
Under the dim glare of the yellow light bulb
Making flickering patterns on the peeling ceiling 
This is the only normal left
Her mother bent over the very old stove
Used match stick in one hand
Blowing smoke into her face
Tears mixing with soot
Sometimes, she thinks they are real tears; the daughter 
As she watches from the narrow kitchen door
Maybe this is the only time her mother can cry
Real tears without shame, without fear of questions 
This is exactly what she doesn’t want to be
This disappearing thing that makes watery soup
On hot afternoons, flies buzzing around her 
She, never trying to shoo them away

She tries not to think that she is all that is left
Her Mother’s only reason to be
Every night, when the daughter talks to God 
Knees down at the foot of the shaky bed
She asks that he never let her become her mother
Even though she feels guilty, she never unsays it.

— The End —