Our Mother

                         She split the nut
                         in her left hand.
                         The breakfast was ready
                         from her red palm...

                         Golden bangles tingled
                         as she washed
                         clothes and bathed
                         at three in the evening.

                         A tap in the
                         kitchen broke
                         She wept and wept
                         to put the flame
                         to fumes. In
                         a room where
                         nothing, but
                         fogy silence stayed.

                         She splits the nut
                         breakfast was ready
                         from her white palm

                         No tea or water
                         the taps hoaler
                         in bursts

                         I burn my finger
                         in the hot pancake
                         She dials for the plumber
                         The line is dead
                         her left hand
                         persists

                         epilogue :

                         for you I give
                         half my dreams
                         and half my
                         mothers' unknown
                         tears and a
                         drop of my hopes
                         and a thumb
                         that smears my
                         thoughts all over
                         the face of despair.