Mother

Poem up for cinematic realisation

I helped Mother carry drops of water
that weighed like deserts
to the river’s mouth,
for it was thristy.
How could I know, God,
those were her tears
and, headed south,
she was to bury her name,
with salt and sadness,
(her soul)?

How could I know
in those droplets
a silver knife
was kept
with which
the moon created
veins and tears
carving the stars?

…