My spinsterhood
will miss you Ma,
in times of fright
when my hand quivers,
like dreams turned into paintings,
wavering in the misunderstood
emotions of epistolary novels.
It was just the two of us,
You and I,
Two women with one consonant,
the umbilical chord.
My spinsterhood comes in
Transcendence;
dawn and twilight exchange roles
a repertoire
of clandestine recipes,
emotions garnished with
coyness and fright.
The two of us know,
Dear Ma,
It’s much more
than my spinsterhood
who had embraced him
much before I knew
I have given you a new
Identity and relationships,
Dear Ma.
I have set the milk to boil;
the clamor of utensils
you wait to listen,
to feel this house
is still moving
speak of your father
and a pen,
responsibilities impregnated in me
like a deceiving spinsterhood
and the verity of
a transformed identity.
That’s how I converse with
my fading spinsterhood
and you,
jingling the keys of our
Storage room.
He knows, dear Ma,
I’m your daughter
and my words know
this spinsterhood has been
a lie.
He knows, dear Ma,
my tears for you
are not temporal
anymore
and we both know
It’s time to step into this
World, together
with our new identities
and relationships.
We both know, Ma,
In times like this,
the umbilical chord sustains us.
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