Mother’s Day
Ask her what was her first memory of joy
Ask her what she did when they told her she must do as they say
Ask her what she did when they told her to shut her mouth
Ask her what she did when they told her she couldn’t do anything she wanted
Ask her if they ever told her not to follow her own dreams
Ask her if she ever loved him
Ask her if she ever thought of leaving
Ask her if she ever thought of leaving, and then talked herself out of it
Ask her who has hurt her
Ask her how they hurt her
Ask her if he hurt her
Ask her how he hurt her
Ask her if he hurt her often, always
Ask her if he hurt her every night
Ask her if anybody heard her, and if they did, why did they do nothing
Ask her if they told her to shut her mouth and bear it, bear everything with grace
Ask her what she did when they told her to be a wife, a mother, was her duty
Ask her if she has ever had a pure moment of quiet
Ask her if she ever wished she’d never left the provinces
Ask her if she ever wished she’d never gone to the big city
Ask her if she ever wished she’d never come to America
Ask her if she was afraid
Ask her if she was afraid every day
Ask her if she believed him when he showed her his fists
Ask her if she believed him when he showed her his firearm
Ask her if she ever slept through the night
Ask her if she ever said no
Ask her why
Ask her why she never said no, when everyone’s requests became demands
Ask her why she kept giving
Ask her why she kept giving to those who would not give back
Ask her if she ever fed her own hunger
Ask her why she never kept anything for herself
Ask her why she never set it all on fire and drove away
Ask her why she stayed, when even her sisters were telling her to go
Ask her why she never told you any of this
Ask her if she would have told you, if you’d only asked in the first place
Ask her how she did it all without you, or anyone to help
Ask her if you have done enough to help her
Ask her what you could have done to fill her
Ask her what you could have done to heal her
Ask her if she wishes you would have done more, or anything at all
Ask her if she knows you have been angry on her behalf
Ask her if she knows you have been shouting on her behalf
Ask her if she cares
Ask her how it could have been better, even though it’s irrelevant now
Ask her if you could have protected her, even though it’s irrelevant now
Ask her how you hurt her
Ask her if she will accept your apology
Ask her if she will ever forgive you
Ask her if you deserve her forgiveness
*
Brown Girl Creed 3
I believe in my mother, much more than the sum of her suffering
see the flowerbed blooms in the womb
see the pots of pink succulents flowering
and vegetable vines in the veins
taste the heart’s earthy stew of roots and fruit
fill our lungs of pink jasmine to trellis the trachea
tickle the larynx with monarch butterflies
let us weave a crown of sampaguita for her
I believe in my mother, our lady of luya, our lady of laing,
descendent of centennarians and soldiers,
daughter of dressmakers, doñas, doctoras,
asawa ng makulit, at makalat, kahit nakakainis, asawa pa
ina dagiti bartekera, how a proper lady raised four drunk girls
lover of In-N-Out Burgers, lover of prosecco in tiny sips
I believe my mother left us too soon; and I never posted video
of her dancing tango with the drag queens at Gattaran town reunion,
or playing Rachmaninoff on the piano on Saturday morning,
or Spamsilog Sunday, because her girls are hungover again
how many hands, how many eyes must have been required
how a single womb does beget such a schedule
I believe she left us too soon;
I’m still trying to text her when the Dubs game is on,
and when Giants baseball radio broadcasts are back,
and when I’ve had the best quesabirria tacos ever,
and when it’s a good time to go bargain shopping
and can we stop at Valerio’s for pan de sal after the mall,
And I will always want these things, all the things with her,
to sit in her garden with her, our lady of lemon trees
to singsong among the backyard weeds, here, the angels sleep
and so I continue to wear my grief soaked dress
and so I continue to apply my grief tinted lipstick
And I believe I am still a daughter, I will always be a daughter
though my hair now grief gray, face now dark spotted dull
though my father has passed, and my mother has now passed
I am second daughter of the dead, daughter dreaming of the dead
daughter awoken as orphan, irrevocable daughter still
middle daughter undeniable, now and ever. Amen.
***
