Mother

She lays herself bare

for us

her children.

We use her

as our playground.

Here we gather

we the outsiders

here we belong

in the pardoning lap

of our mother.

Her multiple warm wombs

welcome us in

pulsating with rhythms and beats.

We shed sweat in spaces

that drip condensation.

We hope to be reborn

through nights to mornings

that dawn and spread light

over her awnings

like encompassing arms

marked with pigeon track marks

protecting our place

in this world that would judge us

for our wide eyes

grinding mouths

gyrating hips. 

Here the new outsiders

travel in through her arteries

to stare at us.

But this is our mother

so we spill out into her streets

and seek to retreat

from their violent gazes

and the sun's heat.

We turn our backs on her

we her children

so that she might rest

until night breathes

life back into her

and we return.