maternity

Mother Melancholy

I’m stuck in a beautiful melancholy where my skin flashes hot-

and cold-

and I can’t escape it, I wallow in it, I play in it,

I weep in it and I call it home and-

unsteadily-

I climb to my blistered feet and the salt grips at my face as my eyes

stream and my mouth opens and

a string of saliva breaks and

I am not beautiful but-

at the same time-

I am beautiful because

this is my melancholy.

This is my melancholy, a purity of white from

my eyes, and a darkness of

red from my harsh fingerprints and

nothing left in my brain but a desire to howl

howl like a-

a-

a- a- a-

a child. Howl like a child as he feels his

skin brushed by comfort, by love, by

mother. by Mother. by Mother indeed.

That is the howl I will emit.

Held for the first time by something I know will stay

with me. A melancholy. Whose mirror image

projects a dripping chin and leaking nose but

a smiling and open mouth and her teeth-

white, pearl, perhaps too large-

sit comfortably in her mouth and lie

comfortably in her arms. And I howl.

I’m held by mother. by Mother.

A beautiful maternal melancholy.

A beautiful Mother Melancholy.

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