By Ana Caballero
Mother,
you’ve killed me with your emirate hand.
The flood you called momma love
soaked my art,
sent rapids through each tunnel dug.
Mother,
I fear the birth of a daughter.
Another to flood, to forge
with our white eel
discipline face.
It is so. It is all the same.
Momma’s communist love,
Momma’s tourniquet sway.
Mother,
thank you for the trip abroad.
There were mornings like pamphlets on joy,
but by noon
tongue-thrown flowers
doused the afternoon.
It is hard to say
which momma I have today:
Momma of the East,
Momma of the West.
Mother,
your battle is agrarian.
Unfair my fertile lands.
Confused, I drew gift poorly,
your yoga left intact.
Momma, let’s not pursue
fault.
No word can exist
simply now:
Father just became
a legless man.
Clamor 