Hold me, Mother 2
You say nothing anymore,
yet your silence has the voice of a psalm
spoken by a weary angel.
I touch your forehead
and feel the sky shatter within me,
like a thin eggshell
from which a spirit emerges.
They washed you with holy water,
but I washed you with my tears.
The difference is small:
only that mine hurts.
I stay close to you,
my forehead pressed to your shadow,
and I beg you not to hurry toward the light.
Leave me a little more of yourself,
so I may learn how to breathe
in the absence of love.
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