I ripen,
in your two palms
held together warmly.
I turn,
fruitful and
glistening,
growing.
Oh how the moon
must envy
you,
for your dirt,
your impure,
your knowledge of
life.
Oh how the universe
must envy
you,
for your mastery
to hold someone else's
roots in your soil,
until they grow
beyond the darkness,
until gravity has learned
to let go
what it loves.
I rise
above the ground
and meet my sun
and my sky
but I will always
come back
to your two palms
held together warmly
to lay my body
back in your dirt.

- Portrait Series; Mother by Thamanna Razak

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