poem: so human

The Mother’s Hand, 1966 by Antanas Sutkus

God knows the damage doesn’t he,

left alone with a bit of clay and only seven days

how did we

craft the minutes into moments?

 

Time chuckles at my attempts

to keep the kiss.

Spit still on my lip and they ask why

 

why do you write?

You kissed my forehead and stroked my hair, I knew something was amiss, something tactless was there.

I have a terrible amount of affection stored up in me, like vats of ice cream. The ice twinkles and the smell is sweet. I dole it out to the wrong people, people who let it melt or drop it on the floor or step on it. Who can I kiss kiss kiss until I’ve had my fill? I am a hungry girl I admit but don’t give me crumbs to keep my starved body alive. Tender is my longing, but I no longer seek. My mother has built me differently.