MaMa
The last words you held under your breath,
your husband came to see you in your restless sleep,
you failed to mention you wore a painful longing to touch
and to hold what you lost,
a sweeping silence paces our household
like a stern warden in black robes,
heavy hearts loom through doors as the news rubs
distastefully against our necks,
the slosh and clank of chip ware may never be heard,
fires in the coal pot smoldering in silence,
palms hugging tightly in words of comfort,
as we clutch our stomachs in slow shakes of the head
against the rhythm of the morning monologue:
a mighty oak has fallen –
a maternal tree torn from her roots
leaves the river dry,
the stump that bears our weight
cruelly uprooted from the soil,
a sea of red and black shirts part over green stretched carpets
and grief camps beneath raven canopies,
a wreath of tears clogging our throat,
as we cross our arms and hold on to ourselves,
we swallow hard
as we choke down morsels of inconsolable tears,
you lie in your wooden box, won’t say a word,
and your photo rests in an unnatural stillness,
as though you foresaw the call, Mama.
O’ if only you had whispered…
we may have been better prepared,
but we do not only hold rings of tears in our eyes,
we also wear a chest that feels full,
for your sweat, and your tears,
and for all that you had to endure,
just for our sake, Mama.