I found myself in the arms of a mother

Whose charms are rough and her hands, the color of peace.

And faith, compassion and pain were connected around us like a fence of rhymes.

Her plans taught me to share my space,

Traveling here, my childhood hope walked many tight ropes,

Becoming fear that I won’t grasp the new language becoming forgotten names,

Erased from the pages of exiled asylums in her hands.

I tried to conceal my tears, like religion from her schedule, and my father from her father,

In this blistering race,

But my mother’s tears tasted the same, as they splashed upon my face.

I found myself in the arms of a mother

Whose charms are rough and her hands, the color of forgiveness

Yielding in me a defiance of plastic patience and televisions’ celebrations.

I look in vain for an image of Her

Whose reason to continue is a dried ointment of reliance

For the hurt she could not lock-out

Or

Meet head-on for her sons and daughters,

So of course, her hands push away rather than pull closer.

Her head is always high

And she asks nothing of anyone but their mistakes,

So that she can shoulder their pain upon her age. Her bottomless recognition of

Holidays fiances graduation grandchildren freedom immigration towards immigration

And my native tongue’s native meanings.

As silent as her smile on my first day of school,

My pride is a condition of lions tamed twice as easy in her praise

Upon my cheek. As a magpie perched over my window.

My mother’s rocking chair is empty,

She studies her withering face in a two-faced mirror,

A softened left-over, like a lance raising each braided, white prayer from her scalp

She refuses to pluck out

The split-ends for every night I failed to call home, every bowl of soup that went cold

The rice grains as stale as grades on my hidden report card

And subsequent due process of her belt buckle.

Reaching for the rosary and Kahlil Gibran

Wondering if I’ll ever leave her be,

She smiles and I smile from outside

Glancing at the phone as it rings.