• countablyinfinite 10w

    The mother,
    as a young girl went to wars
    then at night, went to her room to sleep,
    a room with remnants of wars, with their own sheets.
    The mother, now a married woman,
    goes to wars and never returns.
    Her tongue and nails smell of war;
    must be why her husband never comes along
    or takes her, she whispers years later.
    The grandma was a forgetful mother,
    she forgot to tell her daughters to be themselves, take as much space as galaxies,
    that they would always need love, that they can have so much love they become it, that once a mother; she cannot forget.
    No one taught and no one knew how to be a mother or how to stay or how to remember.
    The mother, now with kids as ordinary as wars,
    is trying to like them,
    while claiming she knows how to love,
    how to be a mother,
    how to stay.
    In her dreams, she is exhausted from so much running,
    she wakes up and by noon
    her daughter fights her as she teaches her to be a mother,
    some feet can't stop but they crave staying.
    The mother rinses wars off everywhere and becomes them.
    This house smells like poison,
    like rage of an angry man,
    the walls, the doors have become him.
    The window shows a closed window,
    on the other side are families, eating curries with hand, families eating together, families that don't want to kill each other in their prayers.
    A fixer mentality, the mother is always running,
    with knives, without heart.