My womb is a war ground
witnessing bloodshed
after bloodshed.
My vulva isn’t the one you might call
a sweet pussy; it is
a frothing bloodhound.
If you dare listen to it
Somewhere deep within is an urn that hisses
Voices of dead children.
Do not ask me to bear any. For,
i’ll mother skeletons,
crush them in a mortar and
spread them across this brown land of yours
until all its cracks of hate is filled,
sealed and satiated.
Oh, i will be mother.
i’ll draw with my blood a crow
Or let my lust take shape
of a vulture.
Someone should feed on the corpses
you ceaselessly dump in my yard.
Oh, i will be mother.
i’ll birth wolves
that shred your maps
cutting people, scrape your
last dregs of power, and
tear the tongues of language
Oh, i will be mother.
i’ll bring forth witches
who’d hunt down every hate bone in your body
burn them until it splinters.
And i’ll dance around
as the charred memory of our oppression
goes up in smoke.
Oh, i will be mother.
Sorry i’m not your fertile land
But darling, i’ll be the burial ground for
maggots that prey on
the mangled breasts of my daughters
You leave half-eaten.
Oh, i will be mother.
i’ll pour out lava
Consume men like wildfire
And when all the walls you built,
the lines you drew, the books you writ
crumble to ash,
when this earth no longer remembers words
that once reeked of
religion, race, colour, caste, creed or sex,
Maybe then
i’ll spread myself and celebrate
motherhood.
And this earth, too, will thrive.
Oh, i will definitely be mother.
But until then
Remember, even wildflowers
Do not grow on war grounds.
