Mother by Muhd Zhafri

Mother walks pale streets
tracing faint porcelain
and spilled rice
from which her children
struggle to sprout
in the backdrop of jade-
ed fields
against wheat skylines.

It is so hard to hear Mother
talk, or know what she looks like.
We only see her behind paper walls –
a silhouette of a woman
in a balancing act
on bonsai trees,
each creak a gentle rhythm
each sob a soft lullaby.

Mother will continue crying into teacups,
emptying them in the rice fields
before she looks up to face us –
like stage curtains
her hair is pinned sidewards,
presenting the kind
smile in her eyes
as her monochrome face
continues to fade on that silver screen
without English subtitles.