Picasso's Canvas

In summer evening my mother
weaves the maps of her village near Ichamati
and draws the bleeding sun,
silent, wrinkled and still,
her eyes within eyes sink and cements the cracks
of the broken cheeks of the child,

The treacherous life swallows the rain storm
only a dwarf planet knows the scar
on her skin, the deep cut scoops the flesh
replete with the dark sideburns,
waiting for the anecdotes to reveal
the arch of her buried ridges.

Gently they go, the tender, the kind, the caring,
down, down, down,
for the edge, so depleting and free,
the secret stories sleep in the memory
and deconstructs the happy ending
of the Mother and Child in Picasso’s canvas.