What Becomes of Motherhood
This stinging, this jabbing
this nail-sharp rib
this wintered chest, these yearning arms
this ravaged heart, these deep brown wells
that search for the warmth her children bring
does death feel cool, or cold?
what becomes of motherhood
when embracing her child
brings nothing but aching
in her ribs
her chest
her heart
What fire burns greater
than a mother’s hollow arms?
the thought of tiny, grasping hands
of teary pillows, of their cold nights
the thought of her children losing their mother
hurts more than living, more than dying
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