Mother from four angles
there are too many metaphors for you:
You are Medea descending the stair, the blood of your children
freshly engraved into your fingertips, their faceless ghosts
hovering by your thighs, and you speak in bonecrushing silence -
afternoons bring out the vicious taste - and you smile suddenly,
a folk song ingenue, and you are in a field where ghosts are arbitrary,
hidden by the grand sweep of wheat and a sky that spells out
nothing but disaster (but the ones who matter are already dead).
You are an ant tickling the palm of a god who does not believe in himself,
muttering strange spells into his lifeline, thou shalt not destroy my garden,
and you nibble on his fingernails for that daily injection of dead protein,
muttering about the Japanese maples in the backyard,
undoubtedly dying from a lack of rain, existential god be damned!
you have no time to waste on his stutter, his lisp, his sigh, his forlorn gaze,
as your personal Eden continues to die.
You are another dictator, patently decadent in the poverty you've created,
and the reflection in your boot is not human but a shapeless
denial of wrongdoing, and behind you stands an entire nation
of poets and priests, all the insiders who see your butterfly collection
of conquered dreams, pinned down like the medals of your uniform,
and they gasp, write elegies and prayers signed with the official seal,
dearest mother of ours, and you pretend they are about you.
You are a feature film of the worst kind - overpriced and violent,
a horribly dubbed copy brought overseas with the fishes -
where the theme music is nothing but a recording of your voice,
speaking static in English and Chinese like a proverb machine,
and the protagonist is one of those vegetarian single moms
who has eyes everywhere, a third-world surveilance camera
spoiled by bad cinematography and sloppy edits.
none of them - imagist whores! -
capture you the right way;
you are all and you are none.