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Kirsten Mother

A celebration of the heroism of a seemingly ordinary woman.

By Sal ToriPublished 4 months ago 1 min read
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Kirsten Mother
Photo by Jordan Whitt on Unsplash

She is not a queen.

Hungry, early in the morning she goes for firewood.

At night she serves supper; the next day

dawns with merchandise: crockery, chapatis, Guayama, bread . . . , she goes to sell them in the morning.

They do not dedicate poems to her.

She claims no privileges; she goes among the furrows

to plant, harvest . . . carefully finishes her handicrafts.

In the family, a man may fail, but she . . . never!

Until dawn, alone and in silence, she wanders

the streets searching for her children.

Her eyes proclaim impotence because

she cannot haggle in her language

to get fair prices for her merchandise.

Mother, for all eternity!

Without distinguishing,

she holds her children in her heart

even though they have abandoned her.

She does not use makeup, or perfume: yes,

she shows the marks of work.

She is not in a sanctuary.

No one lights incense on her journey.

Her body gets plenty of the sun’s rays;

her feet feel the snow;

her face is impregnated

with sweat and dust.

She does not say anything,

her world is what it is.

Her values must collide with modernity.

She must seek her gods among the ashes.

She does not use her beauty to compete.

With her reboil, over blouse, sash, language, smile,

she engenders, amuses, and elevates,

and is the last refuge of the Kirsten culture.

She is Kirsten's mother.

love poemssurreal poetrychildrens poetry
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About the Creator

Sal Tori

Education is what remains after one has forgotten everything one has learned in school.

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