Dear Mother Wound
MAR 13, 2025
I let my hands fall between the crest of your chest
and I find oranges in my mouth.
Here, there is a song, of memory
long since forgotten—the melody
that dances in-between
metacognition and futility.
Bending the lines to seep into the dream.
Where I once was, where I am no more
the echoes prance between my pages
the charcoal on my fingertips and lips
the drawing paper, once blank.
Oh what have you, desolate monk
creature that spews violent daydreams
onto blank pages once carved from trees.
I remember your mind and I love you
you live within the borders of mine.
Join me, desire all that you do
my we join hands between your breasts
and unlock the cage in your chest.
Find me in the meadow,
where past meets the self of today.
Jump with me, into the waters
of tomorrow.
I desire the orange fruits.
I desire the mechanism that springs
the blossom of a new tree.
Find me in your poetry
dark night of the soul.
Your darkness expounds me.
My mother says,
who is afraid of the darkness
of her own beauty,
that the light of God—
where pure things go
where only the pureness of grace
can find the momentous pain
that is life and death.
That all my silver
will never turn god
that shaving my head, so boldly
will never appease this grace.
I shout and grow angry
at her Beelzebubly wanes:
God knows my soul
and has named me with Grace
Where I have found this gift of god
at the same beach you took us to when we were kids
in my heart, over and over. . .
Dear Mother, I think you were wrong
no torments can match this beauty
of a pure soul.
