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Mother's Eyes
by Wendy Freebourne
Your eyes speak when your
mouth is silent; and crinkle up when you
smile; slits of delight, wincing with
pleasure; saturated cesspools of repressed
emotion, even when you are
happy; aching pinpoints of pain. Sometimes
they are sodden bogs of
despondency, blocked tear-ducts, constantly
weeping, half moons of helplessness, dreaming
seas of flotsam, grey fog that sometimes
lifts, to reveal steaming
swamps of
jealousy – fixed points of hatred when you're
angry; egg-white glazed with
vanity, proud limpets in gleaming
oceans or
candy cotton clouds when
you're petting a dog, cooing at
a baby, they grow
milky. They are penetrating mirrors of my
soul, when you really see
me, all-seeing cameras of my
misdemeanours that say
nothing
directly. Your eyes close with the flash of
photography – and when you are
sleeping. They close for ever on that
day,
when you leave me.
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