by Chide
Brown mother, forgive us
for not hearing your silent cries
until you opened your mouth in anguish
and your sobs wracked your body.
forgive my sisters for murdering
your daughters, the elegant magnolia,
their softly curled petals dancing
to odes from the gentle breeze,
lending their fallen offspring to
the soil at their feet, like fragrant
offerings, unburned incense.
Mother, forgive my brothers
for murdering your sons, the firm
sturdy sequoia standing tall
and regal, a testament to your
strength, their red tint
mirrors of your enduring beauty.
forgive me, Mother, for trying
to poison you with the excreta
of your grandchildren; the dark fumes.
mother, forgive us for making you
weep in sorrow for your lost children
forgive us for the cracks in
your body, for burying
your children under your skin.
Chide is a curious poet who loves yam more than is strictly necessary. When she’s not too busy gushing over the wonder that is yam, she enjoys reading, music, singing and occasionally writing pieces of herself under the guise of poetry.