mothers day

mothers' day is a different one this year
it will never be the same
a comfort of ritual,
of small gathering now
broken
ripped away
furious violation of the young with the old

a mother with one less child
a mother with a child who have lost a child
it is a day that i cannot say
happy mother's day

happy for what, i may ask-
why is it always about happiness
the world that is full of possibilities

as much as
of misfortune suffering grievance
of irreplaceable loss
of the days of unspeakable feelings

for twenty-eight years
she have spent in nurturing bickering
convincing and convinced
for the days- for how long, we do not know
she now can only
remember reminisce
the allure of graspable existence of
a lost child
deep in her heart
each beating moment

the mother consoling a child
who has lost one of her own

two different mothers
confined in the same invisible grid of bereavement
leans to one another
in front of a cemetery plot
still fresh without grass
the earh freshly sunken in
too new to be commemorated
in iron and steel

mother's day is yet just started
as a child died
as a child buried
in their minds