Chores

The pan's lifted out of the fire
no burnt, the food filling stomachs

the sheets dry with the tinge
of the sweat that lined them for days

the boots all sparkling clear
of the dusk walked over in the streets

there is so much order in the house
where does this silence come from, then?

like your life is of no value

You point at an empty frame I haven't hung yet

asking 

what would an empty womb use it for?

To ease death we say

to ease death we say, all sorts of things
valid or just left there in the space that has been opened

to ease death we say
the baby was incomplete

the heart couldn't function anymore
fractured around its edges

to ease death we say
it was a disappearance

journey completed
from the East to the West

to ease death we say
the loved ones are gathered

somewhere that's boundless
maybe this is how the verbs break in on us

to ease death
regardless of what we say

waiting in a vacant time, lets us expand
into easier versions of the same death.

demanding parentage

Hard as stone
her demands, I complain to the wind
it hears me back with a song
she's your mother, isn't she? 

Motherhood

I damned this motherhood
the time I saw you in my arms
lifeless, even in a dream

Accusation

A mother with error
does not look back
retrace her steps in space
before her hand comes down on the child's shoulder.

Our mothers

Superheroes, without capes
under-celebrated, even when we give flowers
our mothers

observations of a young new mother

Wavy wintertime

his little hair creates

a break in the rain that’s falling

before the chocolate is consumed

by his little milky teeth

protection

how could you, talk to all strangers?
asks the same woman that motivates
a sprint in steps, an opening up to the world
mother of mine.

Not a sugar cube

You are not a sugar cube
my mother used to tell me, why then do I
fear the rain that could fall flat on my head
gentle and with vigor forcing me to run
to the nearest street-corner, hide and cover like it is the end of times?

these hands

These hands cannot
carry across your way anything
when they are holding a baby

Luca, Luca

Over bent-over forks
she turns to me, whispers
it is Luca, Loo-ka,
an Italian pronunciation

My Luca came two weeks early
he is now the age of two wars
at twelve, normal, bilingual
safely loved

I had seen twelve year olds
carrying buckets of water
when the river failed them
when the butterflies grabbed their tongues

hands left at doorsteps
bodies upon bodies
while in me, Luca
grew and stretched

like palm trees of Basra
sing-songs of mornings
where rocked children
slept half-naked in mud

to protect is a verb strong
by its recollection of making
of your body a house, a shelter
of ears, mouths hushing in prayer

a change of silver to dark
as thing fell, early gifts
my eyes adjust quicker to darkness
easier to his breath;
I have called him Luca
because he brings forth
the light