My mother had been standing naked outside
the house for years, trying to regain
her husband's love as a plant in his farm.
She died, while he was out selling crops.
Blown over by a violent slipstream,
she lay on the ploughed, bosomy earth—
her skin licked by the sun and her feet
ripped from their roots.
He came back at predawn.
I missed his sounds—his hisses and shouts—
not his love, nor half-phrased apologies.
I couldn't have cared less if he had a woman
or another family in the city—the empty
vastness enough for me.
We dug a pit, until the midday
seeded sunburn across my back. He touched
me. I cried.
I denuded myself,
skinning her leaves off my body. As her daughter,
I was so different from her one would wonder how I
sapped out of her womb. Even in death she
looked more beautiful than me.
I waited for my mother
to grow and fruit the sun, plucking off
the labour of harvest that took years
to grow, and I consumed the unrequited
love of her seedy flesh.