The children’s daybreak always waits
until I have opened my eyes.
Every day, with their petitions,
they draw out my dawn
from the night’s heavy darkness.
The elder boy, tearful eyes sparkling,
claiming his prerogative for the first bath,
waits for my consent, while the younger one
who swallowed the last drop of my breast milk
clamours loudly, voicing the privilege
of the very young. The very house shudders.
A monstrous picture of my neglect
lies stagnant, immoveable, always
in my eldest son’s heart.
It disturbs the impartiality of my love;
tilts it momentarily.
They churn my motherhood
with their tears,
and measure out their share
of the massing love.
Though their tender hearts
plant seeds of weariness alone,
yet
with my sons’ help
I will take hold of the rope
and haul away the darkness
always by my side
like an unmoving chariot.