Momma’s Groove

An infant’s crying at the top of its lungs,

The woman who birthed to it is not its mother – She lacks instinct.

So it screams its voice dry and cries its eyes shut

There’s a humming beat at the pit of her stomach.

The woman who kept it does not care for it

So it dreams of a palm that glides on its skin like feathers on thin air

And a voice to wish it to unconsciousness

It hears a sound that whistles like vintage steam trains,

That short, awakening burst of steel in motion

Piercing,

Deafening,

It fails to hear the sadistic thoughts lead on by neglect from the woman who birthed it, but isn’t its mother.

At the pit of her stomach,

There’s a beat which hovers over her eardrums like a guilty conscious

Photography by Faje Kashope

The sounds that calls from the pit are the loud screams of an child that knows love, but not to receive it

With an ear to her belly

You’ll hear heavy cries and silent laughs of a child that knows happiness, but not how to reach it

It cries at the top of its lungs

Without nurture – it lacks instinct,

So it screams its voice dry and fails to cry its eyes shut.

. . .

It’s heart beats too loud of a lullaby for it to sleep

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