Sketches of my Mother

 

Black strokes on white paper,          
forms one identity.
way the rubbings are done,
from the black corner,
shadows someone’s being.
Made in way; faces on sheets
aren’t lifeless.
They are alive in many lives.
Madam or Maid? She doesn’t deserve to be.
Queen or Subject?She doesn’t want to be.
She’s a creator
through her, things begin and end
she doesn’t command respect, she is honoured
by carriers of honour themselves.
She strokes life on paper
it breathe and swallow
emptiness of paper
Queens want to be the woman she is
Kings can never see her in their reality
She speaks her mind, many seldom do,
Her sketches are the reflection my identity.