I am reading

I am a troubled body of water
that is laid upon his stomach
on the thighs of my mother.
her hands are onions that tickle my sea,
there is a little fate that her faith makes me laugh
when her god becomes a wind
or a little word is hidden in a book.
On some of the not so bright days, I see the sun
in her breast, while she breastfeeds other stars
so when I read of galaxies and constellations
her memory is all the breeze brings to me
then a little of my father buried in a box
hidden away from the world,
a quest to find him is a puzzle
solved with only punctuations
the ones that come after death.

Ruddapoet