Rosa Maria De La Luz
My mother is the cup of water I drink my prayers from,
and when drops slip between her broken fingers,
I press them into the soil with my thumb,
on to where things go to be reborn, back into my mother.
Her majesty of the Inferno, who greets ghosts like she greets her brother,
struck my arms and carved words out of my arteries,
to tell me how my eyelashes are my last line of camaraderie.
My mother can take ripped paper and make it whole.
I burnt my arm once, so much that my skin melted, so she kissed it
until the scar was nothing but a memory she stole.
Secrets always seemed to be in love with her,
she curls up with the dark as if it were her own bed,
I’ve known ice packs and advils as long as I’ve known what crying is,
headaches seemed to be passed down, like heirlooms distributed by a forehead kiss.
Biblical doesn’t do her stomach justice,
the guts and hot tissue that violently spun inside my mother,
a great storm that released great bloody floods in her.
I’m happy to find its lightning in the mirror,
I trace them on my thighs the way she’d trace my arms during prayer.
My mother’s voice sounds like the kind of wind that whistles.
It calls crows to her window in the hot night air.
They like the taste of her name on their tongues,
and chew it like it were their own children,
and talk about her as if she is not where I come from.
Tabatha Botti is currently a full-time student enrolled at Florida State University. She is studying both Political Science and Editing Writing and Media in the hopes of getting a masters degree in both majors.
Take a look at ‘something you should know about me’, also by Tabatha.