tyrants

no matter the years

my mother is made of the sun and she rubs copper and saffron into her skin until she's red and glowing/ till the clay of her flesh/earthen skin/ is spicy with the tang of her armor/ she wears her pride like jewels, clasping them against her body until the gold of her fingers leave hot smears against their cold shells/ i know her as i know the tender brush of her palms against my nape, my skin bearing the patterns born in the shape and curve of her womb/my mother is fork-tongued, sharp-eyed/and the sting of her venom is tempered by the honey in her touch/the bite of her words by the loving chafe in her hands