Mommy Poem by Shreya Nair

Mommy



Dear mother whose name I do not know,
Who is blooming with me inside,
I hear many voices applauding you and your husband.
I do not know what waits for me outside your cave,
Perhaps I will finally see the sleeping sun of winter
And faint perfumes of grass, you breathe and feel.
I've heard you calling me funny names and everything male,
Am I boy?
I've heart your love for me and sweet tears when I touch my home
I've felt the faint hums of food you eat and trickles of water,
I've felt you more than anyone.
I've heard your heart thrum in your web of veins when father kisses you
I've heard your partiality to blues and toy cars
I wait every night to hear your voice sing the tales of interesting people
Your skin ripples the kisses people give your blossoming stomach to me,
My head feels heavy with all the whispering sunlight and rain that patter on your body
I feel everything you feel.
You must be beautiful like the sun and moon I've heard about
Your warm hands croon me when I drift off to sleep.
I love you with all my being, I am your art.

Today you saw me before i was born,
Can you see me? Am I pretty as you?
Mamma? Why is everyone shouting? ?
Are you angry with me?
Mommy, I am scared... why are your tears bitter now?
Can you feel my fear as I feel your poison now?
Why are you suddenly so numb? Why is your heart relaxing?
Are you sleeping? Why didn't you sing today?
I hear unfamiliar voices... mamma are you alright?
What are they talking about? What is ruthless?
Something is rushing into my home, my feet tests it
I am blank at once; slowly an ethereal pain twists my limbs,
My knees color into grey, I am withering.
Is it hurting you too mamma?
My mouth opens to gasp and the water rushes in.
I cannot feel anything... and scariest of it all, I cannot feel you.
I thump on the walls but my hands are weak
My finger's impression dies on the walls of your womb
My hands fall, Mommy?

Sunday, April 3, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: abortion,grief
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Sekharan Pookkat 15 April 2017

life discarded before it blooms- the pain never heals from toe to head as the womb stretches the soft touch of soul

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