kebeneij

There is this Love called 
”mother”.

She is all hands. She is all giving,
 never taking,
 she is wide open eyes, wide open arms, 
wide open palms—
and when she whispers “come back home,”
it’s her chest she points to, 
there are wounds there,
 but she has grown flowers in them.

There is a beating heart, whispering dreams,
 but she silences them 
so they do not disturb my sleep.
 There is soaking, wet pain
but she never hangs it out to dry.

There is this Love called mother, 
and she is always awake before the sun is,
breathing sweet smelling life into the morning air.
 She is awake even when the moon is,
 and I think it turns a little paler each night,
 always jealous of her beauty.

There is this Love called mother,
 and her hands are never soft. Made of all callouses, all scars 
from the nights she spent carving me a…