Machetes Of Motherhood
Machetes Of Motherhood2 mins 362 2 mins 362
Purple stretch marks peep from my stitched abdomen
Like erupting grapevines in a forgotten vineyard,
My plucked strands—scattered lullabies— decorate
Flaccid limbs, like bent,
tired branches, meekly
Protest in despair,
While swollen, dripping
breasts sigh as my newborn
Clings to the nurturing flesh.
I’m but an Indian damsel whose baby blues linger low
Between the Ohio River and
Silhouette of disaster— unkempt days, broken nights,
Milk powder and burnt fingertips,
My soul smells of leftover porridge, my name tastes
Like frozen cereals.
My infant wails like a lost mermaid after midnight— you
Should meet the charcoal shadows under my eyes,
Tranquillity is a desert rose now— choked hiccups, and
Fragmented burps saturate the suburbs’ breeze.
I’m but into motherhood— as freshly as white orchids, my
Peaceful moments as littered as seeds in a watermelon.
Certain summer evenings, my toddler hangs around
My darkened neck like a lost kite,
Those dreamcatchers have captivated my muffled
Sobs— aching bones, raw tendrils.
Diapers are my pillow, and my skin smells of
Strawberry shampoo and talcum powder,
I’ve tea parties with the musical
Duck potty training seat.
I'm but an oceanic calamity— a disintegrating song
Of a fatigued siren.
Sparrows chirp in the
Redwood forests, and
Mountain lions hum in the
The California sun isn't enough to thaw my
Frozen veins of postpartum depression.
I was told motherhood was lovely and
Divine— a biblical blasphemy, perhaps?
My nerves are frayed— shrivelled poppies; I'm
Underwater— my throat is clogged with algae.
I'm but a fragile mortal, a human mother, and
Not some invincible Greek Goddess.
Plain sailing motherhood?
Ah, such a beautiful lie!