'Mother' by Gessica Sakamoto Martini

Mother sits on a golden throne in a meadow of eternal spring, like the Empress of the Tarot. She wears a dress so wide that anything could be hidden under it. You, me, what we were, what we will be. Every pomegranate painted on its fabric is for you to eat to unfold. Mother holds and releases. Like a tune that breathes. Crowned with stars, she is a being of heaven, the same one you learned about in church. With her round sceptre, she will make everything holy.

Only she doesn't.

Mother sits in the centre of a cornfield, so high that she could be anywhere and nowhere, like a concealed shell. You can only hear her calling to her offspring, howling like a wounded animal. If you could reach her, what would you see?

A dress stained with dark stains.

All the pomegranates gone so that you would never have to leave.

And then Mother, who asks for more.

She demands for what is in your swollen belly because now she no longer knows the right time of the season. With a sharp sceptre, she undoes you. For Mother holds everything within – me, you, what we were, what we could have been, and she never let go.