Hold me, Mother
Hold me, Mother
not because I am afraid,
but because within your chest
a part of me still echoes.
Breathe slowly,
like a tree counting its leaves
before autumn comes.
That’s how I count you:
with my eyes, my mouth, my blood.
You were more than your body,
you were a psalm of flesh,
a church without walls,
where even God feared to enter,
lest He weep.
Hold me for a moment,
just as long as one can hold a light
in palms wet with tears.
Do you feel it?
I am the one who breathes you now,
from beyond yourself.
Between us, there is no more time,
only a thin air,
like a prayer torn in two.
Mom, if you go,
take my voice with you,
so it won’t be lost in the air
place it beneath your head,
like a stray angel,
when you will fall asleep
in the blood of the sky.
Hold me, Mother,
until your silence becomes
my language of adulthood.
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