Mor

I have called on my own mother

Grief tears me in pieces
cuts with iron into my back
rips up my breast
And there
where he was for nine months
right there a stone of pain has been laid
That I should give birth to
produce
But my sorrows
cut the stone round
into me, deeper into me
Does one get accustomed
it is possible
to carry the stone of pain
like an unborn?

My sleep is torn
by my own screams
Day and night become one
Dreams become tangled with daily toil
That toil in everything that burdens
And I ask myself:
Was I the same person
before this?

I have called on my own mother
and her mother
and grandmother’s mother
I have begged for guidance
asked what I should do
when they forgot to say
what one does
when this happens

Am I here
do I still count?

I have paid calls
gone into shops
attracted people’s attention
Many
many have stopped
told me I am still here!