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!

They are swimmers having left the sea within me for the one outside where I cannot control who they meet or temperature or tides, moving beyond my distances fleeing this sliver of land farming oyster, kelp and salmon singing songs I cannot hear, closing water from their membraned ears diving deep with wide membraned hands and feet and larger lungs to meet the deep my little fishies I would coo and then tadpoles as they grew, ever more me ever something else to dream the world where wet supplanted dry is to see them change and challenge and survive 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!

On this day your time has come to take the story. This is the story of us — of who we were, of who we are, of who we will become. Every child must learn the story. Every child must grow and tell the story. Take the story and give it to everyone you see. Tell the people they must take the story, take it and give it away. Put your words and poems in the story, so that when it goes you go, too. Tell the people they must put their words and poems in the story, so that when it goes they go, too. Tell the people what I have told you on this day — your time to take the story. The story of us – of who we were, of who we are, of who we will become. Tell them the story.  And the story is:   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 …

Cuando yo tenga hijos, Yo no les voy a pegar ¿Como podría levantarle a mano A un ser que se parece a mi? Cuando yo tenga hijos, Yo no les voy a insultar con palabras filosas Porque el amor verdadero No debe herir ni doler. Porque la relación entre padre e hijo No se debe basar en el odio Ni el miedo. Image by Obed Esquivel 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!

Time to depart. Goodbye. Umbrellas of yellow facts Made in China. I leave with boxes, cash squirreled in a wallet, an adventure or three. People fight for a tomorrow I read about an ocean away. In Greater China, my single lid eyes, fair skin, black hair pass Go, collect $200. English, the catch and release. An American, neither Quiet nor Young. Western, not blonde. Asian/American. The Great Wall enslaves. A script gouges poverty. Sons as legends? Unbroken history? I’m a woman, a heretic, sharing a peach of sugar and stars. I am your stranger. My home burns and weeps. Hands up. Hands up. The guns! The guns! Children shot. Black lives built the dreams, yet nightmares haunt those who yearn to love. My land is smallpox blankets, whippings, ghettoed men who laundered without love. Ancestors dying for pineapples and cane. Bloodied hands and scarred backs. Lynching, an innocent’s reward. Women scrawl for cents, rainbows fear storms, children flee through deserts under starry nights. My body yearns for flight. Umbrellas Open. Hands Up. Across oceans under …