7 pains

It started with your mother,

The rough move that spilled you inside of her.

The oxytocin that purged you from her velvet.

It moved on to the blood running down your legs,

As tears streamed down your face.

The salt and iron reminded you of pennies

And you wondered at the dismissiveness.

Sooner or later, you’ll

Find the knife between your legs,

And slice whichever times he decides to hurt you unwillingly.

You’ll squirm under the benign sterile glove,

Who’ll steal the secrets you were to uncover.

Blood might bloom within you,

And spew out as sore red tears.

Drained and sole,

You’ll mourn the discharge

This mass will change into nothing,

Its darkness to swallow you as did your mother’s.

The curdled miracle will make you scream,

A swan song of deviled sweetness.

Spread open and mangled…


You’ll weep with the joy

Of your mother

And every mother before her.

When the softness curls up

In hot tendrils of ash and smoke,

Don’t despair for the wetness of your mind,

Thoughts nimble and sticky,

Your bubbling body will hold the horizon still.

The sky will weep into the earth and you’ll remain

– the trampled pathos of the world.


Maria de Araújo