LITERARY: “Eterne Mother” By: Darein P. Catchillar

 

TW // Psychosis, Sexual Assault, Childbirth 

I. Matin Utopian Dream

 

Honeyed lips with the presence of your freshly uttered words;

Twinkle in your eyes didn't dwindle into sadness.

And I loved hearing your calming footsteps,

It's as if your thoughts acclaimed the souls of all the wight heads around you.

 

When you called me ‘Mama’,

I felt no pain but joy and tiptoes.

Then, the mellow fruitfulness that covered the innocence in you—

Made me realize, “I knew it was all yellow, never blue.”

 

And when you were known as my child,

I've never felt so committed in my life;

Never was a runagate, because it felt like home—

And it would never die, it'd stay forever.

 

The gallowed great unwashed around me,

Confused the sooth of my existence and reality.

But he was there, my lovely child, saying;

“Mama, I love you with all my heart.”

 

Summer backyard of my beloved bairn,

Nonce for our furrow to hand along the way;

He tapped my face, held my hands, and said,

“It's all going to be alright, Mama.”

 

He ran through the surface of the green,

Loved him—it was very seen;

Warmth of the flower ropes by his arms,

Strangled the longing soul of madness—demured of my feminine.

 

Full-grown Indian pipes around the corner of your playground;

It was too odd—the white and the pale;

Handsomeness of my head pillows,

Nousled me reversed to be the child.

 

Bavin words were thrown then flew,

“My son was there, it's true.”

And then I asked ferociously,

“Why would you look at me like that?!”

 

The instant voice then practiced the calm,

“Mama, don't scream. It's fine.”

Oh, dear mine so gentle—

Followed your nature, “I love you, my son.”

 

Because the moment afeared the borrowed mom,

Believed it was fine—didn't throw the gasted grasp.

You were there, my son;

“To sleep the night; devoured by the fright.”

 

II. Recollection of the Womby Madness

 

There was a child in her first decade,

Tampered by the fears and glazed naked.

Faced and dismayed by such abodement;

“Stay there, please stop!”—shrieked with her broken utterance.

 

He held her hands as they trembled—

Words turned into the man's ear; skimble-skamble!

Quiddit struck from him into her chilled eyes;

“Why would you be scared? I promise it'll be fun.”

 

Counterfeit of her father, the man then assumed;

“You are my kicky-wicky, daughter.”

“Do you like it? I know you do.”

“You are as beautiful as your mom.”

 

The wind thundered the smoke of her breath,

Then all that she felt was disgust and anger;

When she was helpless—mind screamed the words with her eyes closed,

“This is just a dream. Listen to me—you are asleep!”

 

But she felt the tight grasps that made her gasp;

She didn't picture any comfort.

Legerity of a daughter's madness,

It painted the whole lune—coloured as black.

 

Then that day, she called the room ‘haunted’;

The girl was played as if she was a mammet.

But of the tenth year of her existence,

The black and the madness could always grow underneath her chest.

 

The unsureness of her footsteps created a bigger fear;

And yet she was too young—gestation took its place,

The womb then became a full mountain—

“So, is this a baby inside me?”

 

She woke up with the empty, shallow muscles;

Implorator of the moment—she asked,

“Do I have a son now?”

But the answer she received was, “I'm sorry, but he didn't make it.”

 

Maggot-pies flew, puisny mom lost a child;

The silent shades asked for a calm retreat,

But then, oh, life owed her a life.

And the ghost sleigh-bells rang along the way.

 

The sorrow awakened, confusing the reality itself;

Her head fordone the shears as if there were no fears.

She wielded the fust and kept the ensnarement going.

She believed it was just a dream, and that the child really existed.

 

III. Unmuzzled Truth

 

A memory of mine was then purloined,

There was my child—fay of the odd;

The hurly-headed one hurtled,

“My son is everywhere!”

 

And did I blast the rough bumps?

Did I ask for too much?

Did it make you happy?

Did it confuse the oneself?

 

They then thumped my face,

“You have no child!”

But if there has been a boy beside me,

“How dare you disrespect the comfort of mine?!”

 

Twisted reality turned into an epiphany,

“So, I was the girl in my disposable dreams.”

The lakin of my history was then coloured red;

The imbrued touches then became visible.

 

If the swing was pushed, the greens would've stayed any longer.

And when it made me wonder once again—

Beautiful things were too cliché,

I was too young, and I never knew.

 

My borrowed children's book, antiqued by the froward time,

And the backyard of our brown-stone house,

The breezes stayed like the frozen poles—

“I remember you. Yes! I remember you, my son.”

 

My agony was never filmed,

But I wanted it like the new-spun threads of my white scarf when I was ten.

And the stubble-plains seemed like the brown in my eyes,

“I might've only created you in my head, beloved son.”

 

And if you ask me why;

I hated the loud and crumpled the coloured papers.

I was oppressed by immanity and a bloody strife.

And yes, it was also because I wanted you to live—and so you did.

 

What would my life be like if I wasn't hapless?

If my head was the only escape,

Why would I think of some other way?

You, my son, were an unbodied figure of the path.

 

But people, when you are young, they see you as a bland white;

They'd paint you hued colors you don't even like.

Their imperceiverant concerns would lout your only comfort.

And if you weren't young, you didn't always have to believe them.