she holds my hand in her palm
cradling it gently
as she cleans
the wounds she reopened
again
on my calloused paper skin.
The giver birth
and
the harbinger of my death,
embraces me in crocodile tears.
"Who is she?" I am asked
and in a cracked voice bandaged with promises,
I answer;
"she is my mother."
Jan 28, 2023
Jan 28, 2023 at 1:31 AM UTC
she holds my hand in her palm
cradling it gently
as she cleans
the wounds she reopened
again
on my calloused paper skin.
The giver birth
and
the harbinger of my death,
embraces me in crocodile tears.
"Who is she?" I am asked
and in a cracked voice bandaged with promises,
I answer;
"she is my mother."
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