Editor's ChoiceLove PoemsPoetry

Motherhood

You can’t kill me, I didn’t kill my mother:
Daughters and sons have gone sick again like a bird with bird flu.
Worries, her capsule to pass through the day’s trouble;
And sometimes, yesterday’s troubles enough for the next.

Market, she had gone twice this week,
Twins to nurse, husband to wife.

In the night, she dances to unseen spirits’ beats, reaching high without the sky height.
Just to put them in dream land.

Mummy, mummy, I want to pee!
No rest for her soul, even in the midnight, only few minutes of restless rest.

Doctor? She does,
Teacher? She does,
Chef? She does;
Laundry through the past of time.

The routine, she obeys all through,
Just to be mother to them, wife to him.

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