Torn

She clings to her pain.
In search of rays from the sun
she plunges to the floor.
She is a mother
forbidden from watching a son grow -
from her bosom he was torn.

Ten years since torn,
and yet her companion, pain,
does relentlessly grow.
But what of her son?
Would he want to see such a mother
with tears and knees gripping the floor?

Now she reigns the office top-floor,
but still her soul is torn.
She ponders, what makes a mother,
as screaming eyes face the pane
and attempt to drink in the sun,
but only snowflakes block and grow.

Must you watch the child grow?
Must you snatch him up from the floor
and comfort your fallen son?
Must you mend his torn
pants after kissing away his pain?
That’s what it takes to be a mother?

“Too young to be a mother.”
“She herself must still grow.”
“To raise a child will bring certain pain,”
they claimed before floating from the floor
with her newborn babe torn
away - never to seize upon the face of her son.

A mother never to embrace her son.
A son never to behold his mother.
A mother endures, but is torn,
while a son, unaware, does grow.
Her heart scrapes the floor
alongside the pitiless window pane.

The pane of snow releases a sliver of sun
upon a cold floor, embracing a mother
who just discovered no baby will grow where one was once torn.


Sestina Poem created for Quotation Inspiration contest - December 2010