Our poem

Painting by Serge Marshennikov

She skins my pride,
I bruise her feelings
before I fall from my pedestal.
(never asked her to place me there)

She swallows my words,
choking with my anger,
I slap her ego
and it is too late
to ask respect to sit
between us.

Her eyes aren't her eyes anymore
as I try to find a manual to consult
in cases of fire but everything
is incinerated.

Can't shape the ashes into a heart:
my hateful hands tremble.
Can't climb up her altar again.
I bend with burden of my role.

I got up with her singing.
Her voice is the lament of the sea
when the wingless seagulls cry
on the shore.

She can't understand her life
dresses my infinity
neither the reason why the sun
meets the water instead of the moon
every single day.

And when our tired eyes contemplate
the sorrowful horizon,
we are unable to wide it
and stretch love.

Karla Bardanza

Photobucket Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012

1 comment:

  1. What a beautiful poem about motherhood. And what a loving tribute to a love so deep between the two of you. tc