Mother: You are a hyperbole of the moon and the star, a hubris of soliloquy.
Like floating wax, you extend your skin to my mouth, forming chains of bewilderment
chains of congruence chains of mammoth frills of hope.
You lie in the darkest of hours with a sparkle of holy water on your chin, the pink chin,
the orange chin, the grey chin where all the clandestine secrets are packed between
your teeth and the parched lips, you give blossom to my hair extending to my curves
the scarlet, metamorphosis pattern of face
Opulent serenity lies in your blood, I see my reflection
Time, death or a crooked tree, you put embroidery incumbent to survive the veracity,
harsh or simple.
Objects around you become opaque, hollows of orange skies
squares of white ice, the eye of Satan
I absorb all the conjectures knitted in the black of your eyes
to the stars in your magical touch
the fidelity to produce a seed: a seed I shall carry
a seed I may fail
your liquid, pale truth of surviving I inhale in the morbid tales of summer
only to form the web of ink and paper burning inside your motionless,
sturdy, an amalgamation of Supreme Ant intoxicating, all pouring inside
basket of void, dulcet, a white star.