All posts filed under: Poetry Archive

mothering in the before

my hands already know the velvet of your cheeks it was imprinted there before either of us was born I have practiced hugging you in big and small ways to always have arms ready for you as you grow I will plant dreams in your heart ripe I will nurture knowledge in your mind curious I will surround and protect your heart tender beating captured and already secured within mine I am preparing a place for you a home for us a time when me becomes we Image by William Fortunato 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!

If a Tree Falls in the Forest

I am loved in cold mornings and pursed lips, her feet callous and bleed over cracked hands (spill the beans) my mother hugs me at the departure gate, snitches on herself in a hitched breath goodbye her lips won’t part for. one day I ask if it’s me: my fresh mouth, hellraisin, how daddy spit me out so himlike? or the way her momma loved in clean sheets and fried bologna sandwiches? how I seen auntie chuck plates and flip the spades table, but she always cry silent? I am loved in graveshifts and new clothes and whatchu want from the stores and I almost said it back but would she even hear me? 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!

The Unmothered

I could tell you everything you wanted to know My coming State side to pursue, to embody the American Dream I could tell you about flying over the shining sea; amber waves patch-worked like glassy rice fields – my soul a mere shadow mired in the water A pawn where stars and stripes the occident ALWAYS triumphs over the crescent moon, the orient Transplanted NO D E OOT R P U In secret As hidden as the Cantonese heritage upon my visage YET I was not relinquished I was a missing child I had memories of merlions, touch-me nots,and hawker stalls I was rooted in the satay clubs, double decker busses, and Singlish slinging lah’s and aiya’s as part of my lexic on colonizing Kipling; embracing the hybridity of Singaporean Not all orphans are real ones. I was a manufactured one. 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, …

Medifluous

not what he meant, what he said how they spoke her voice, song to me of course it would sound like heaven self before self undivided whole her amniotic cradle his voice through her body him singing alto tenor in her sounds my ears were shaped to hold my first love my first opening brimming full was deep voiced and purple haze mellow as he murmured my name and groaned with me this squawking nasal talking I can’t answer hurts no phone please these street screeching children high pitched mimics of chalk on board ugly screaming me me me into another reverie of what was truly delicious delight my name precious in their mouths sacred in their throats 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!

Human Decency

A tiny bug scurries across the counter, and my hand slams down automatically. No barrier between its death and my skin. I barely felt it. Afterwards, running my hand under water, I don’t even use soap. I know that I’ll do it again, and again, and again. Those small, moving bodies evoking a nearly instantaneous response. I track down where they live, their secret passages, so I know where exactly to place the poison. My sons shout, Bug! Bug! because they know me— merciless eradicator, matter-of-fact killer, steady stalker of infestation, grim keeper of a certain, pristine life. They summon me to take care of these necessitated deaths. So confident are they in their own position of safety. 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!