Mother Vérité

The image of the mother rises; a small, dark square frames a flatness of her simulation. The women circle around screens, icy blue light burning their retinas. Millions of tiny lights pierce the neural pathways of the women, messages moving at incredible speed through their spirits and beaten bodies. 

She’s not good enough. 

She doesn’t belong to us.

We do not claim her. 

She’s not like me. 

The artist had the eyes of a woman. She watched mothers’ bodies, traced their marks, discovered the territories of imperfection that had yet to be celebrated in bronze. A mother’s body stepped out of the metal door, child in arm, belly soft. It had never been done. The artist had the hands of a woman. 

The women watched from darkened rooms.

Is that me?

Was that me?

That’s not me.

I’m still alone. 

The women left their cold rooms, stepped into a world grabbing at their skirts. They walk past each other, smiling with their sharpened teeth and wild eyes, clutching knives in their pockets.