All posts filed under: Poetry Archive

Genetically Bound

His absence stings of salt water and cigarettes Memories of my childhood, of dry humor and spontaneity, with tidal waves of emotion My father spent his life looking at the chip on his shoulder with fresh eyes and an unbridled enthusiasm for his point of view I inadvertently learned a lot about myself, seeing him peel through the layers of his life and how he challenged the world around him Every day was a peculiar adventure that I could never quite prepare myself for I learned how to ride that wave and when to dig my heels in I learned what was valuable to me and what deserves protection I grew tough skin and an unbreakable core Most importantly, I grew empathy for those who go through life nursing their wounds from severed bonds His absence stings of salt water and cigarettes Memories of my childhood, of dry humor and spontaneity, with tidal waves of emotion He showed me the currency of our relationships is how we treat others and that where there’s a deficit …

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 …

What the Earth Carries

I. My grief is buried somewhere deep. Where it can settle, be nurtured, and sprout as  something less disruptive, more fresh, and closer to the living.   II. Granny worries that I didn’t grieve properly at Mama’s funeral. I want to tell her my grief  has been released back to where it came from, until I am ripe enough to bear it’s season. III. In a dream, Mama, with her slim, black fingers adorned with bright gold rings, braids my  hair down my back. She is focused. Meticulous. I wake up, and rub the thick locs forming  on my head.   IV. Out in Mama’s garden, I can smell her. Fresh hibiscus and vanilla. It lingers, even in the dresses I take from her closet, and in the scarves I wrap my head in each night. V. When I dig my hands into the soil, I feel a soft beating, like a heart. Entranced, my  breathing slows to a steady rhythm. Granny bends down, grabs my wrists real tight, and  says, We’ll get through this …

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!

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!