Mother
With the broken home
Scattered mind and loose animals
Break the curse cast upon you
From your deserted lover (before
It’s too late)
Make meals for the hungry
Children not of your own, but those belonging to God’s mystery surrogate
The one who owns sky scrapers because the compensation was high
While you twiddle needles of spring I can tell
You are no goddess, your skin
Is all marked up with time lines
Your eyes hold cups of suffering
While your hands shake
Body balancing two extremes in empty space
Gives you more weight
Your heart freezes over so you
Can manage singing past the warfare — damaged —
Into a microphone for an empty bar on Sunday
Begging for change
While make up runs down the river of your face
Your home is chaos
But you love like fate and
Let the rat who stole your bread feed it’s young in your cupboard  because
You would do the same