My Mother’s Garden (my homely grave)

familial obligation, this noose divine, 

hangs me over a brilliant field of poppies.

vibrant. alluring. a deceivingly fine line

between this world and the next.

break apart my bones, mother, in the name of my life’s shrine,

scatter my muscle and hair into the fields.

plant my tissue amidst the pines, mother,

create that household garden of yours facing west.

and alas! i do not struggle from beneath the beds nor the vines,

watching the vultures and crows.

this is my reckoning, my Armageddon, 

my Ragnarok, my earth, my earth.

as the clock strikes midnight, as my tongue becomes twine,

your flower petals bloom to their fullest.

my soul is your new poster garden. my body, your selling point. 

your evolution, your revival, your rebirth.

mother,

you get your second life through me, i see,

but what about these dreams of mine?

Author’s note:

Familial love is difficult to define. While I don’t seem to have the words nor the skill to create a proper definition for it, I can write what it isn’t. Familial obligation, though similar in context, is not synonymous with familial love. Obligation in comparison to love is shallow, limiting, a burden- it holds far more negative connotations than the latter does. But to call it abuse is a tricky line to cross. I find myself tiptoeing around the word. In doing so, I lose my mind to the gray area. 

The truth is, regardless of what label you call it, pain is pain, and that is what I feel when I think about my mother. Realizing that my own mother didn’t love me in the way that I needed, “abuse” or not, was devastating for my mental health.

The weight of having a relationship solely consisting of obligation rather than love is a heavy one to carry. In order to honor my obligation to my mother, I’ve been forced to sacrifice my freedoms and myself. Her dreams have been made to be my dreams in the name of familial duty.  “my mother’s garden (my homely grave)” is for all of the children feeling as though they've given up their hearts for the people that birthed them and are left to only crave a little warmth..

edited & published by Gayatri Noor Choudhury