Mama rues the days she bears me.
Her tongue spits a burning fire,
An antique dagger it remains
In the heart of father.
In the wake of the sun
she would curse her hidden stars.
And in moon’s reign
would praise the ancestral power
Of the river goddess who smut her
The wound of a withered fertility.
When the bells chimed to her hopeless hope
And the birds chirped on Her bleeding cross
Mother’s tears would warm grey’s wind
“Maybe” she thought
“My salty tears would sweeten this bitter womb I carry.”
Mother’s numbed spirit called out
But I had sneezed my last on her hand
As she caressed my empty form
Willing my sealed lips to suck to life
her dried up milk.
~ Mercy Oluwarinu.