The years mellowed me.
Time somehow slipping and sliding,
staunched the flow of festered memories
that prized us apart.
Now I understand.
Hunched before your polished marble headstone,
the ice-cold burn of self-reproach still blistering,
I’ve come to know the sorrow of your soul.
In an age of grim oppression,
your womb still warm from the bliss of birth,
they snatched the baby from your bursting breasts,
and sold it to the highest bidder.
Your screams ignored,
you wept in windowless rooms,
where darkness drained your dreams,
and hunger hugged the endless drudgery.
Those bloodless brides of Christ,
failing to grasp the gospel of their groom,
forced you to suffer,
in the steam-filled silence of sanctification.
Shaved and shamed
you stooped your shoulders to the stainless steel sinks
brimming with dirty sheets and the sacred surplice
of those who sentenced you.
I thought you had forsaken me.
Fallen woman, a number for your name,
they branded you unclean and hid your beauty
behind barbed wire fences and pointed bars.
But rest in peace, Mother.
For I am the voice they tried to terminate,
the searing memory of your silent heart
And now I remember much forgetfulness.
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