my soul* is maternal and acts as a supplicant to her star-bearded Son; my soul is maternal like the smell of yeast rising, like the feel of folded laundry, and like the shine in cassia-toned hair.
My Soul is the mother's taut reaction to the whine of her baby: she writhes in pleasure of coining the perfect creation from her yarned womb. High-sunned stalks stem from his thousand-petaled crown, mewls, howls, and whiffs of love splash into creation of the babe’s anatomy: he is purple-faced, dipped eyes, marbled hands, endowed with his early-born mother’s atypical jewelness and his skyey father’s aptitude of royalty.
The babe tastes her malt-like milk and grows beyond the mass of my skull’s matter, hoping for the growth to cease in a stature of yore, to cease in a phase long passed.
My saturated maternity yearns for the inch length finger and inch width palm to cling to her, for she misses when she was the trellis for the vine.
Now, she must persist in her swerving non-linear growth, conceding her child was a Morning Star and drew further from Spica even faster than he did from her: but she must perpetuate his growth and her own. For there is no more stasis, only expansion, and because of this, their flights are to cross again somewhere,
there is no line and no route; she will walk in the footsteps of her precocious-boyish man days and years after he did, and he will walk over the hills of The Mother in days to come, (before she even realizes it) and sprightly sprint over the footprints fading in the cosmic snow, wanting to go back and sink in the imprint, hoping to burrow himself in it to be in her holding once again.
No thing is parallel, no thing is construct, all-one are we, and we are made to watch ourselves amplify and quieten.
*I use soul without a capital S because individuality is the ego. I might as well have put 'ego' or 'ego-soul' (??) but, um, stylistic reasons (I guess?). So, I guess this isn't really my Soul, but my mind. Or my heart. It’s my heart talking. Heart? It’s my flesh talking. The heart is a treacherous thing! I have bad articulation.
This is heavily inspired by an experience, a song, and from a poem by Saint-Pol Roux. The title, "My soul is maternal like a native country", is a direct quote from Saint-Pol Roux's "The Magdalene with Perfumes".
How verbose of me.