I feel so lonesome on the campus,
like a candle among condescending suns;
my guilty eyes seeing only one person.
Through the library’s TV-like window
I discern a tree trunk
resembling a devoted woman,
holding endless branches and twigs
displaying and relishing security,
oblivious to the woman’s perpetual pain;
Waiting for my friend each dewy morning
I see that massive rock,
with vivid cornflowers leaning
against it, near the elegant bus stop;
it’s like a crouched woman,
one who has just been beaten black
and blue by an alcoholic husband.
When I spend the evening under the bridge
admiring the fragile swans transport their
blissful bodies across the river
I feel a motherly presence
in the rhythmic ripples, as the harmonious
water turns into a gilt-edged frame
for my beautiful mother’s brave face.
I know too well,
mothers are experts,
perfect experts in lying about their miseries.
And at night, along
the ceiling there is always
that silent workaholic carrying a
bulky basket on her head.
My friend once told me that my
ceiling is a canvas paying homage to slavery.
I only understand that it is
a basket made weightier
by the unrelenting whims of mankind.
I always keep the light on at night,
my brave mother’s holy light,
holy support and holy words
smiling blissfully by my side till morning
Waiting in anticipation.