Right in the Middle

frustration and anger

For three thousands years I’m waiting mother

to get out from the night to hear stars blood

gurgling on the neck of uncorked pitchers

I never cut the throat of a young black rooster

I never fed on tender wheat ears milk

my feet are maimed by splinters

from a withered oak stump

stones were breaking when I jabbed the axe into it

 

I’m pregnant with twin teardrops mother

I have swallowed the handkerchief

at my father’s funeral

I must give birth and be born

someone has to cut this Gordian knot

with a hot knife

washed in white lye