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Sharae Burris Poem
My mother bathes her mother’s feet.
She kneels in quiet reverence,
Raising the one who raised her.
Hands cupping water as if it were holy.
Her hands speak a language older than words.
The language spoken by those who had not yet formed their own speech-
love, poured out in gesture.
My mother is light in shadowed rooms,
She moves like mercy,
She gives like breath.
In her presence,
I remember how to be whole.
She ministers through touch,
Anointing without oil,
Healing without command.
My mother is light before the dawn,
Love that does not boast,
Life that does not end.
In her is a glimpse of the divine.
but even judas kissed jesus.
and sometimes,
my mother’s hands-
those same hands that cupped water like blessing-
become vessels of betrayal.
she hears my sorrow,
then sharpens it,
folding my secrets into her mouth
only to spit them back like stones.
when the shadows are mine,
she is no light.
she names my ache weakness,
my stillness laziness,
my fear ungratefulness.
there is no holy water when i cry.
no anointing,
no mercy,
just the weight of her disappointment,
and the echo of her silence
where comfort should have lived.
Copyright © Sharae Burris | Year Posted 2025
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Sharae Burris Poem
t Is So Easy to Forget
How much the world is trying
To love you.
The cat,
Rude at 3 a.m.,
Kneads her affection into your ribs
With every purr.
Your mother,
Tired but present,
Listens longer than she has to.
Again.
A family on a long trail
Pushing a wheelchair
With patience braided into their strides.
Even the deer-
All wide-eyed and whisper-soft-
Move as one.
They know something about devotion
That we sometimes forget.
And your body?
It labors-
Sometimes against your own wishes-
Without applause.
A symphony of survival:
Heart, lungs, burning muscles.
All for you.
Love is not loud.
It is not always pretty.
But it is close.
It is constant.
So tell me your hopes, thoughts, dreams.
I’ll show you mine.
And in the meantime:
The cat purrs.
The mother worries.
The family walks.
The deer vanish into trees.
Your body lives.
Copyright © Sharae Burris | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Sharae Burris Poem
My mother bathes her mother’s feet.
She kneels in quiet reverence,
Raising the one who raised her.
Hands cupping water as if it were holy.
Her hands speak a language older than words.
The language spoken by those who had not yet formed their own speech-
love, poured out in gesture.
My mother is light in shadowed rooms,
She moves like mercy,
She gives like breath.
In her presence,
I remember how to be whole.
She ministers through touch,
Anointing without oil,
Healing without command.
My mother is light before the dawn,
Love that does not boast,
Life that does not end.
In her is a glimpse of the divine.
Copyright © Sharae Burris | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Sharae Burris Poem
You bind my hands,
Command me to kneel
For what you know are my final moments.
(Surely you know this will kill me)
You take your axe,
Split me down the middle-
Clean.
And I open.
You rip through my skin,
Tear through my fat,
Destroy my viscera.
Prying each rib open,
With the tip of your axe.
You contort my body into grotesque form,
I let you.
I can be whomever you need me to be.
You watch my heart,
Its movements now erratic,
In the wake of ruin.
The carrier of my pain, my thoughts,
My love.
Even still,
It bleeds for you,
It beats for you,
It burns for you.
My blood pools around your heels,
Staining your feet.
You step away,
Disgusted by the mess you made.
Copyright © Sharae Burris | Year Posted 2025
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