A Mother's Cup

                                                             A Mother's Cup


There is a poem seeping through my skin in faded brilliance of blue and violets.

There is no holding it back--it is about you--

the wrinkled, white shirt and tired eyes still sharp and deep

deeper than the Mariana Trench and as violent as 

the torrents of Niagara Falls.

I couldn't hold your hard moments in my hands--snatch them from you--

those treasures covered in years of shit and soil and rust--

you have to carry them.

The poem begins leaking from my eyes--green thorns of roses tumbling down my cheeks.

I hear you.

The words dulled to the monotonous hums of background noise

your lips wanting to scream into the silence

I heard you yell

FUUCCCCCCCCCCCK.

The poem tingled my spine up into my neck--the grey film wrapping around the vertebrae--

I couldn't take the history of FUCK and write it down and burn it on a pyre--

you have to light the flame.

There is a poem peeking out from behind my tired shoulders---red and tinged with orange sparks--

quarantine

vaccines

"You dirty Mexican" on the bus

the capital under attack

pipelines desecrating holy land

 the headlines broadcast

and the smoky sky comes toward us.

My shoulders hold stronger, straighter;

 they really want to fall down--so low--

to reach the cup you want but is not mine to give.


There is a poem that takes of me 

and paints a picture for you, 

so you can know the devastating art of love. 

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