The Great Mother has no face.
Why would the Great Mother need a face.
The face cannot stay faithful to the body,
the face disturbs the body, it is undivine,
it disturbs the body’s solemn unity.
The Great Mother’s visage is her bulging belly
with its blind navel in the middle.
The Great Mother has no feet.
What would the Great Mother do with feet.
Where is she going to go.
Why would she go into the world’s details.
She has gone just as far as she wants
and keeps watch in the workshops under her taut skin.
So there’s a world out there? Well and good.
It’s bountiful? Even better.
The children have somewhere to go, to run around,
something to look up to? Wonderful.
So much that it’s still there while they’re sleeping,
almost ridiculously whole and real?
It keeps on existing when their backs are turned?
That’s just too much—it shouldn’t have.
The Great Mother barely has a pair of arms,
two tiny limbs lie lazing on her breasts.
Why would they want to bless life,
give gifts to what has enough and more!
Their only obligation is to endure as long as earth and sky
just in case
of some mishap that never comes.
To form a zigzag over essence.
The ornament’s last laugh.