My Mother has a concave slippery mouth,
untouchable with the slick tunes of time.
She carries nostalgia,
like an offering,
a seduction performed
in the onyx of mouths colliding.
A star shadow
molten in pieces
with liquid layers of murmurs
sticking to her bare belly button.
Lipids resting like a heavy eyelid.
She stitches her concrete bun,
as a belt of Ganges
her crisp breaths floating
to tangle the elixir of paper
with minimalist parched lips.
My Mother walks
as a silhouette of wisdom,
dropping shades of grey,
anxiety bleeding still,
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