The motherships have left us

pregnant woman standing near seashore during sunset

Photo by Ibrahim Asad on



I miss the blood red sky of my Mother,

spent nine months there drinking her rain

watched my Fathers hands mould me into storms

never felt his touch though, always like a melting snow.


I miss seeing my limbs form into flowers and pull at the vine

spent a lifetime before a lifetime so warm was I,

watched phantoms through skin fade to grey

never saw a darkness like that and yet I –


I am darkness now watching the motherships come to shore,

always the lighthouse keeper, don’t want to be no more.

I see the motherships with their sails of precious cargo

never held such gifts, yet carried them far though.


I miss the dream-lights that shot across my Mothers sky,

anchored to her knot rope aweigh from her seafloor

I rowed my arms from the shallows to a crepuscule,

it was January and I drowned in the arms of her.


I am darkness now, my Mother furniture-walking to death

and all I see is a ship made of uncollected shells.

It is me who will carry her back to the sea

a bit of me in her, a bit of her in me.


We are always somebody’s son or daughter

some of us on the seabed tuck them into birth-water.

Not going to lie but I am a thousand grains of sand to ending

I am the wave that went off course, pulled back to break then wending.


I am the driftwood of a mothership like all of you floating

in the yacht of moon their will be a place for all of us to sink.

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