I Borrowed Strength
From the women of my household
The women of my household
breathe strength as their second name,
they itch it on the topmost layer
of their raw skin and
wear it with all kind of humbleness,
They speak of it as their
Own mother tongue or as if
They were born solely with
That word while still in the womb,
They hold it tight behind the ribs
And every breath of theirs reminds of
The kind of strong
You always read in those
Books of poetry
Of resurrection,
Of saving humanity.
The women of my household
Spills strength from their very pores
And carves the picture of bravery
Right in front of your eyes,
They paint the words
Of courage inheriting kindness,
Of love inheriting respect,
Of struggle inheriting patience
And above all the strength of holding oneself
Back together after every fall.
The women of my household
Are the kind of strong
That Plath dreamt of,
Are the kind of soft,
The flowers bloom of
Are the kind of whimsical
That Rumi portrayed of,
Are the kind of bright
That Van Gogh painted of
The women of my household
Stitched this strength right in their womb
and covered me with that fabric until
I smelled of nothing but the autumn leaf
Wrapped in the hope of
Blooming spring
