All posts filed under: Poetry Archive

Lucky Draw

Not sure what’s more embarrassing, that at fourteen I still lusted for stuffed animals or that mum’s target at the claw machine was way better than mine. Precise as threading a needle, she’d push the steel arm straight into the heart of the stuffed pit, wait, sipping Pepsi, hand on hip, sure as a cowboy. Once, her single turn brought back not one but two animals — a spotted panther and a long-tailed squirrel. Unlike their real-life avatars, the two never escaped my sight. But she did. 44 then gone. God plucks some of us away randomly, the priest said. Walking home that night, her wins tucked under my arm, I trotted ahead, curious and jealous, asked — how is your aim so good? She shrugged, caught up, tightening her grip around my wrist. As if I was the one prize she wanted. 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 …

The White Night Shirt

Tide-scented, thrice folded, top of pile, she returns to me at night, pulls my soft, sagging mouth down her head and lies down, buffing with her hand my print — a cream and red cottage nesting on her chest. Her mother bought me full-price from the city’s first Westside and now she’s had me longer than she did her mother. It is winter in the picture, we can tell because snow is all over, except not as flakes or crystals but lush, comical apples. So many apples — filling up her dormant arms, polka dotting her hemline, sliced off on her neck — as if Newton was hailed on by one too many ideas at once, the plurality of such impossible weight flattening him before gravity could. This is how grief falls on 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!

Thhuk Pand Te

There was never enough for cab fare so we walked within the small radius of our lives, mum & I. What would decades on; be diagnosed as arthritis first conceived itself as a stretching pain in the back of my knees. I hated walking. Flapping my heels against my butt, I’d slow down, as mum dragged me on and often to sweeten my slog, en route temples or doctors, she’d buy me a large frosted cup of crushed orange ice, knowing already it was surefire laryngitis for my cords, knowing already she was over-budget yet instead of letting me into the gloom of deficit, she’d sugar our stride with mmms and aaahs as I fed her tiny tastes, cold syrup saffroning her tongue with which she’d lick her thumb, count money over and over, hunched at the edge of the bed, darkening the minus symbol at the tally point of her slow calculations. Those nights when she VapoRubbed my neck, massaged warm coconut oil behind my knees I’d mime, taxi, next time and she’d say …

Save Her

Have you ever looked so closely at a child’s face that you could see God? Victoria Chang, Obit what if I told you that I am wandering in the wasteland of a war-torn country, desperate to defend my young daughter? or what if I told you that my daughter is the war-torn country, and this is America, this is America and we are in a hospital room for those who want to be protected from themselves? and what if in order to keep the war-torn country on the map I have to convince you it needs saving? maybe where we are, the name of the country, which war, whose daughter, –doesn’t matter. listen to the long gone and the newly dead, their elegy is short and sweet and pleads with us in every language: save her save her is that a clock ticking in the corner or is it a bomb? you should know that a mother determined to keep her child alive can turn anything into a weapon: a clock, a daisy, a prayer, …

Momma Drama

Do you think mother Earth has momma drama               or a mother wound the same way so many of us do? Think she’s got shit to has out              with the root of the life source from which she once drew? Think she’s acting tough              pretending not to need her mother’s love               Letting the fruit bowl apology rot? 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!