Oxygen wasn’t needed
When my mother lightly blew her life into mine.
Such giving creatures, mothers.
Such absorbing ones
When they take dig after jab
Sucking their round stomachs in
To take the childish blow
And who knows how many more
Before punching bags lose function
Swinging back with centuries of maternal rage
They carry ancestral tantrums
Until stretched out seams render to loose fabric
Spilling a lost sense of self, overtaken by defeat
Their stomachs are round again.
Mothers, such conspicuous creatures
Such ugly ones as well.
Their wretchedness screams in my face
In front of reflective surfaces
I pinch my Jewish nose
Trying to mold and smooth it out like wet clay
Curing my green-eyed mother
Who gave me this lump of neglected culture.
And when the dried ceramic is painted red
Bleeding loathed insecurities
It’s time to yank my hair down
To cover my four-fingered forehead
Until loose strands waltz to the bathroom floor
Where sour tears greet them
And suddenly I want my mother again.
Mothers, such caring creatures
Such selfless ones too.
I feel her amity when she swept
An invisible warmth
Across the back of my neck
As I vomited regret in her toilet bowl
She palms knotted hair in shaky hands
Because the stench makes her squirm
But meaningless motherly tasks keep her sturdy
While I
The selfish appendage
The taker and consumer of her every breath
I exhale my needs
Shoving them down her throat
Until she coughs and chokes on her baby’s cries.
What is stopping her from drowning me
In porcelain plaster
That encases spoiled meals
Does she want me to feel her load
Rushing up my nose
And filling my lungs
So I may give borrowed breath back.
It is a sentiment
More volatile than tenderness
That can soothe uncertain frustrations
It is a standard
More robust than commands
Rather driven by affection
It is a notion
More memorable than memories themselves
Because minds are fleeting
With creases on foreheads
So, what pacifies the visceral?
Selfless endeavors of motherhood
Can keep strong hands in our hair.
