Poetry Archive

Where do Mother’s Go

Where do Mother’s go to fall apart
You can scream with
Intent to pierce the sky
Glass shards fall on skin
Air pockets to breathe from

Where do mothers fall apart,
Their children won’t be taken
From them
Instead, someone hugs them
While mother licks her wounds

Where do mother’s fall apart,
They cry themselves dry
They sit in the abyss
They understand
Why one would abandon their seed

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!

Support Raising Mothers
Filed under: Poetry Archive


Mother to an Indigenous Philosophizing Cartographer, daughter of farmworkers from the Centro Valle in California, Lydia Zulema Martinez Vega was brought into this country backwards as contraband from the Sinaloense coast, raised on a bag of potatoes and a jar of Goshen water, porque aveces ni para el frijol había. Her work guides her back to where her Father left off, the fields and the kitchen table because somewhere along the line of migration and commercialization we have forgotten that we come from communities and legacies that are rooted in resiliency and strength. Her work has been guided by her Elders rooted in ceremony, using creative writing and theatre as a tool for social justice, personal growth and communal healing. She believes that “the arts are the direct connection to the Soul.” Lydia is currently weaving new realities in Phoenix, Arizona.