MOTHER

(for Kathë Kollwitz)

She’s looking up
But her feet are firmly on the ground.
She breathes with a loathsome breath
And never learnt to walk on her toes.
As it was she could hardly eat
Without her children’s screams of hunger eating at her heart.
She pushes away her fears and her desires
As her children claw fruitlessly
At her empty, sagging, breast.
From that arid breast of despair
Came the hollow food for a decrepit soulless life
From which all must take empty solace
For the sins of our children and their children’s children.
Taking time from the hands of the giver
Is to carry the bitter juice of a green fruit.
As the sword is to the scar,
So our sins are to our children.
To make profane, is to flourish
Through decadence, despair and ineptitude.
Quite the opposite to what is perceived as the vanity of want.