Mother, mother

Mother, Mother,
here we are left again,
you, me and solitude like
that first time on the 55th minute of
the 10th hour of the 14th day of
the 2nd month of the 7 year of
the 21st century.

Mother, Mother,
my father comes and leaves,
your sister comes and leaves,
the maids come and leave,
it is only we who remain
amidst the quiet corridors
of a house that is too big for two.

Mother, Mother,
we are tied till the end:
the end of all; until the books close upon us.
you are destined to let me feed on you,
your flesh and fluids, until I satisfy
and in turn, I, who is bound to
tear my chest again and again
to show my heart to you until
you deduce it is not yours.

Mother, Mother,
you and I, us, we came at the commencement of
it, when your broken body was open and
I was lathered in your blood,
and I fear, terribly fear, that
it is how we shall leave.

Mother, Mother,
we kill from the same knife we eat off,
we, who cannot be disappointed,
by a flailing tempest,
we who stand here stitched to the ground,
staring into the other’s irises;
a reflection of our greatest imperial afflictions.

Mother, Mother,
here we are left again,
you, me and solitude,
and nothing else. 
Not even air.