Mother Wings

Mother Wings

(“Jerusalem, Jerusalem! You kill the prophets. You kill with stones those men that God has sent you. Many times I wanted to help your people. I wanted to gather them together as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. But you did not let me.” Luke 13:34)

I am willing,
I am ready,
I need healing,
I need hiding under
the mother wings of God.

When the mask of pain hatbands my forehead,
when icepicks stab my temples,
when every atom in my brain is unrestrained
and knocks against my cranium faster than the
clicking of cicadas,

I need a mother’s hand upon my brow.

I am fading,
I am waiting,
I need breathing,
I need bread and water
made my mother’s hands.

When the day escapes on my bed of pain,
when music shoots my thoughts inflamed,
when every friendship in my arc is unlisted
and no one knocks on my door, though I’ve insisted
I’m not strong enough alone,

I need a mother’s voice whispered in my ear.

The pain blurs everything; these words, the reading,
the vibrations of joy, the location of comrades,
until, though one or two occupy the square footage,
the world is a void filled only with the knife-crease splitting
my head.

I am stating,
I am crying,
I quit breathing,
I need prayer and medicine
made by a best friend’s hands.

I don’t care if they are feathers, or hairnets, or horsetails, or fingernails,
or silk, or satin, or gingham, or the Mass in latin or lingua franca.

Whether you speak or do not speak,

I need a Mother’s care when the world has been invaded by
avoidance and fiery pain.