I love my mother I will love her forever I think. She is the only – mostly the first not the only, but what difference does it make She is the only (first) woman to be love and pain and Discipline and fun and wonder and knowledge to me. For me, she was once life or death And every time she chose me, life for me, life with me I can’t help but love her for that She was the woman who taught me to love myself. My skin. My mind. To celebrate all that made me, me. Because she celebrated all in her. She taught me to love my blackness “it’s brown” she said “because it is the colour of The earth and my skin” The first poet For that, I’m grateful beyond repair She is love In every way, with hugs and kisses With meals and cups of tea With smiles and frowns The love of something deep, strong, true To give and to love. Me, my blackness, all I could be She …

Our foremothers Were  told That stars appeared On the bottom of Hot boiling vessels. And then came our mothers Who let the chiffon chunni Slide off their Henna filled Audacious red scalps When they ran Behind buses To get for their daughters Small lumps of sweets & letters packed in tattered newspapers In their purses.   Her purse, Which always smelled of A little of soap, sweat and her. Oh how I longed For that smell Every evening While I waited, For the stars to appear In the sky Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider making a one-time or recurring contribution to help us remain ad-free. If even a fraction of subscribers signed up to contribute $1 per month, Raising Mothers could be self-sustaining!

Using only the moon’s ripples as navigation, Marina and her daughter make their way to the U.S. Several centavos in her pocket jingle with each footstep north. There is a silent drumming within her.  Her hair is matted. Her eyes, dark and collected like rain clouds. Her feet are cozy for now, but her soles are thinning fast. Fear, a wild river, courses through her body. Propels her. Her girl’s cold hand in hers. She doesn’t hear it, doesn’t even know it exists yet, But that silent drumming maintains the tempo of her pace. She is running on one tired prayer and the reminder of small raisin-like bruises on her inner thighs. There is a silent drumming within her. Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider making a one-time or recurring contribution to help us remain ad-free. If even a fraction of subscribers signed up to contribute $1 per month, Raising Mothers could be self-sustaining!