Bolonm

What’s a mother left to do
when in the wrinkled chapter of life
her children are bygones, memories of 
tears stifled like sneezes. 

What’s a mother left to do 
when her water-beaten plywood 
flooring brays like the frog bouncing 
in her kitchen sink. 

What’s a mother left to do
when, at that blessed age, 
night and day rock between 
the hopelessness of a two-dollar
loaf from the sporadic bread van
and the joyous certainty of death. 

What’s a mother left to do
than to plant her egg beneath 
her pillow, and on the Christ’s third day,
break the morning, commanding:

Sèvi mwen,
Serve me.

What’s a mother left to do
than to get a twavayè: 

Clean the house, 
Weed the yard,
Trim the breadfruit - 
it too tall, 
it beating on the house;
empty the gutter.

What can the priest tell
a mother about her bolonm
when he have his already.