Half-heartedly stumbled her way
Down the eight stairs that lead
From her bedroom to the living room
Quiet was the air
Sick was my stomach
Bright was the tree
Lucy, pranced around
Coat bright pale
As the ground outside
My brother, groaning as the stairs
Creak under him, following
My mother’s steps
“eat” she looks at me
“I can’t I’m sick”
“ Good” she stares
Glass in hand
Day hasn’t even broken yet
“it would be good for you to become a little anorexic.” Her mouth pushed out with aggression
I was 11.
Did you know mother?
Did fear not show in my eyes?
Did you turn a blind eye?
Did you see the tears I cried?
Your love for him outweighed your heart
The maternal thoughts rebuked
His stinking breath, his gravel voice
Remember how I puked
You abandoned me without concern
Left in dark distress
I blame myself every day for my life, this rancid mess.
Did you understand mother, in the fullness of time
Maybe you share some guilt for his innocence robbing crime.
© Matthew Earl
A female human being of African descent.
A subject of extreme abuse and oppression based upon the inaccurate perception of inferiority
The mother of civilization; one from which all life comes forth
One who promotes unity among people of color.
She is strong, intelligent, beautiful,
She is a wife, a mother, a sister, a leader, a warrior.
She carries within her the power to endure pain and the courage to sacrifice.
She has the power to create and nurture life.
She is indeed the epitome of love and sacrifice.
Her smile when she knew I was coming.
Her cry when she first saw me.
Her scream when I made her feel as if she was being skinned,
Slowly and deeply.
Her morning smile-was my best breakfast,
Her smothering kisses-were reviving,
Her attention-was the only reason I needed to live,
Whereas her good night kisses,
She gave me life,
She gave me hope.
And she gave me love,
She thought me to live,
And she took it away.
Her smile became a grin,
Her kisses become obligatory,
Her attention begun dominating,
And her good night kisses,
I-Don’t remember them anymore.
But I wish to know something,
Did my mother stop loving me?
Or did I just grow up?
Nobody- seems to blame her.
My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
Wide open are your arms
The sun is a small paintbrush
Every daybreak it draws
Exposes you new as ever!
The surges in the billows
Blow out swimming clouds
Across the globe.
No they don’t splash out to
The starry thrillers on the sky
They all are a dwarf bunch
Draws down to you kind Moon:
Down to earth on the ground
Spares the heap for all
for the day for the noon.
Then you are there too far afar
The lotus in bloom on uncharted water.
If only one can describe it o mother
Everyone is lost for words!
I took some time out today
To look at my mother-
Not the usual half-hearted gaze
When she's saying something
And I am drawn to the two unread
Notifications on that dizzying screen.
Or the stare that's marked by question or retort.
A real look, at the constellations
in the pupils of her eyes as they light up
With a story of her childhood.
Or a map of the lines on her face
As she smiles down at the coffee
I have bought for her, sipping with reverence,
I stopped to take pictures of her,
Instead of seemingly interesting sights
Everywhere else. I paused to drink it in-
Her little frown as she reads silently,
The furrowed brow I've seen in pictures
Of me that have been surreptitiously captured
In a bookstore. I walked with her today,
instead of ahead or behind or even beside,
But somewhere else.
I took some time out today,
For all this time is worth
To really look,
At my mother.
Do you see me?
Or are you blind like your mother?
I'll ask again.
Do you see me?
Or are you blind like your mother?
Don't tell me your deaf either.
That's not the answer I'm looking for.
I would have never burnt the bridge if you had never fallen off it.
Yet you still say you have the honor to sit so happily upon a throne that was not crafted in your name.
Are you blind like your mother?
Can you not see me?
Because if you can not see me, then I have no choice but to talk.
And I'm losing faith in dancing.
Because I'm almost sure you can not see me.
Maybe you’re both.
Deaf and blind,
because I have not heard any such news from you of an inability to see.
Or maybe you’re just inconsiderate.
Maybe you’re just mean.
Maybe you’re just dead.
Maybe I’m just lost.
Now that I think about it, I’m the blind one.
I’m the one whose face is smushed into the pillows, correct?
Isn’t that how it’s always been?
The realization, dawned sun, is crushing.
I’ma wait for the set though.
Soon the moon will be there in replacement.
Just to match my blue heart and blue eyes.
And when the sun arrives once again,
to complement my red blood splattered on the tile,
I will have my wish.
To meet and beat your blind mother.