Mothers are divine, but not you at all
Oh mother, you are not divine anymore,
When part of you lies silent beside—
Undone by the hands that fed,
The little lips eager to call you mom.
What happens when the night crawls
Beneath the shady town of death?
Was there a sob, or desperate hiss,
When your dirty hands barred her breath?
Was he stirred, or gave a gentle kiss,
When death devised its plan through you?
The hand he held with mountain trust
Held his mouth and nose to rest.
Alas! You killed two little ones,
And why not spare the baby in the cradle?
Maybe you did it with your eyes shut—
And your ears and mind as well.
I’m sure, if a tiny light peeked through
The barred doors of your void heart,
You’d cuddle the little heart with love
And feed her from your divine teat.
But what you got by plucking the little flowers
Waiting to bloom for the world in full?
I’m tired of thinking of you as a mother—
Mothers are divine, but not you at all.
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