J. Angel Aparicio
MOTHER, MOTHER, MOTHER, M. . .
My mother wrapped herself into a tiny package to help her
feel smaller— than she had already felt. She set the heat to four fifty
and baked her body into a cake and presented her soul to me.
And I ate her–
I ate the ashes of my mother
like a hungry beggar– begging to be close,
to be warm.
Again.
I took her soul into mine.
And I wanted to be her daughter (again)
I wanted to be her son.
My mother took me to her grave
when she was nineteen–
when she gave me life
I took hers and all her dreams away.
She lives inside my stomach
and I refuse to let her come out–
I will not give birth to her again
I will not let her leave me anymore
but I kept us apart– for so long
I couldn't let myself open to her. But
I never let go
I hold on until my fingers start to bleed–
gripping with my teeth I pierce her flesh.
I never let go
I hold on to her until I am not holding anymore–
until my bones break into shards– little pieces of me scattered
and I no longer have the strength to keep being her mother.
My mother is my daughter.
I hold her in my arms and
I whisper to her that I am alright.
She watches me
try so hard– to be so good–
to be a good mother and
a good son– a good, good person.
She watches me become
someone I am not
supposed to be.
A child– waiting for their mother to be their mother again.