PANCREAS

“Labour is love”
They told her. And what
Is a woman without a mouth to feed?

I know she wishes she could pluck the sickness out of Him
Like a raspberry
And swallow it whole.
This disease that made Him unlovable - her
Final supper for the man
She was taught is god.

I swear I remember, they used to butcher
Their own steak dinners;
Now her arms shake as she pours His cereal.

Her hands are crumpled like paper, but she’s leading Him to the head of the table.
She paces through the halls searching for those feet, (she knows to kneel)
But He’s too sick to stand now.

He didn’t die at the cross, but
She continues to pray
To His corpse.

(Once He’s gone) I know my mother will tell me how she’s seeing ghosts, and I’ll be writing my
stories, but my Grandma I think
Will be picking at the turkey in the middle of the night,
Wondering why she isn’t hungry because she’s forgotten
That she was too busy fetching His supper for the last 53 years to eat anything.

And I want to know-
If He held her cheeks and kissed her goodbye,
Or just told her to make sure His bed was done up right.

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Neko, 18, Alberta - Canada ✯ IG: @teethintoflesh

“My name is Neko and I’m a young writer and artist from Canada. My work comes from inspiration of the world around me and personal experiences, using writing as a form of reflection. I enjoy literature in any form as well as writing and painting. I am previously unpublished.”