My mother is split
in her decisions,
her mind: like a pomegranate
fingers groping each seed, she bleeds red waters
and though her flesh is rotting away
she has learnt to forgive still
My mother was shielding her womb
with a pair of eyes so strong as droughts
and while she spat incoherent words in
a gush of red,
she knew she must forgive
through shrouded excuses and
abridged apologies,
she was never smiling.
her forgiveness was never sought,
still she forgave
My mother is
split and spitting red,
still she forgives;
like a battlefield, or a pained
sparrow or a forgotten
child,
she forgives.
