Oceans slosh
Inside her cavern
Bump against her breast
Lumps of flesh round and soft inhabit her
Naturally she might feel inclined to do something with all this excess
She might want to grow something with it
Feed someone by it
Give it away more
The space in her body
Babies can be made
Loved. Protected. Blessed.
but...
Making children,
(a customary antidote for the giving urge),
(a customary antidote for the giving urge),
does not always quench the urge-to-give.
She's left wondering, WHAT MORE can she do?
To fill tremendous space.
To fill tremendous space.
What talent hides between lumps of flesh?
What gifts drift in her sloshy cavern - echoing Universe deep within?
Who is she, if not mother?
a mother?
Who is she, if not wife?
a mother still?
Who is she, if not traditional in her use of capacities?
...still, mother. and
every ocean, every craggy ravine, every salted plain, every lush valley, every expanded sky, every fallen icicle, every hungry belly and every every every kind. every full.
This she. This her. This we.
Posts
lovely as usual, Akka B. But, on a Monday morning after a loooong Mother's Day dinner with my brothers and mom(yea moms!), as i read your amazing, usual work, i kept hearing Steve Martin from "Dirty, Rotten Scoundrels" saying, "Not mother?" and Michael Caine replying "no Ruprick, not mother."
ReplyDeletehave a great week!
Thanks FatSy ;) Um, I struggled with this one. I was toying with an idea that had a hard time translating on paper. I may still change it as I'm finding it a wee bit sapalicious.
ReplyDeletePS - I LOVE Ruprick.
This is gorgeous.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful. What a fantastic ode to mothers - those who have children and those who do not :)
ReplyDeleteLove love it! New follower:)
ReplyDeleteah Kristin WELCOME!
ReplyDelete