I am weak, I am ill.
My body suffers fatigue,
it yearns for a warm beach, for the arms of my mother.
Despite her broken womb she can heal me.
Her cancer grows and regrows,
it springs forth from the same warm waters where my life began.
Her brown and wrinkled hands no longer paint youthful gestures.
But her hands comfort her children, who are all now grown and gone.
The temple of her embrace seemingly forgotten, though not at all forgotten.
How does such a god suffer mortality?
How is it that my white skin will not always be compared to her brown skin?
My head aches for the knowledge, for the answers, for the cures.
I am curled up in this tomb like wintery room, volumes upon volumes of books envelop me.
What a selfish girl, I try to find a way to save her when I am not a physician.
Oh, I can learn the words and I can use them, but I cannot put them to practice.
My own illness feeds from hers, like my own life fed from hers.
The womb betrays both the mother and child. |
Submission Name: A great Betrayal
