I look at her and saw dainty hands gripping an    
  adult’s finger,
Her little mouth singing for the first time—world’s
  sign of life.
I chortle thinking we shared the same shrill cry of
  unconsented
Breath. Now her fingertips know by routine all the
  keys they would press
And her palms—soft and feminine (I buy the same
  hand cream she uses)—
Rarely fatigued in household chores, while my hands
  are burnt and wounded,
Hard and rough ‘round the edges. Our mouths the
  similar absent stories
On the dining table drinking instant noodles soup,
  I see

How her hair is pulled up above her shoulders; the
  afternoon sun,
The scent of soil on her skin, a chorale of
  friends, sneaky attempts to dance
On fiestas with her cousins. My universe is vast
  with book and TV characters
My mind a horizon of imaginative dimensions and situations
I wish happened. Swimming in paper-thin planets
was inherited from her;
My decision to suffer trying to fabricate one came from my dreams that could’ve been
Potential realities. But if I’m honest, the swamp between
us might’ve also contributed

Now it’s a river with such erratic currents, but always the tranquil movement that warns 'bout
Its doubtful deepness. I was led to reach the abyss
  each time
I forget the special way my mother loves me. When I
  was forced to pick up the shards
Of glass under the cooking stove and I bled the
  blood pulsing through her veins.
I found there the apologies. I only then understood
  how wrong it was
Because it blended so well with everything the kids
  and I perceived as right.
Just to grow a little taller interacting with others’ half-full glasses while we glue ours
Back together; so they look like they can be filled
  and can pour from one cup to another

Her fingers are wrinkled
as we resurface the waters. I’m also getting used to their
Caresses. I wouldn’t flinch for all that’s coming is gentle.
I also notice the thinning hair,
Speckle of silver streaks. And despite the seemingly
  ocean of a gap, on the seashore, we
Are connected in the umbilical. In her eyes the
Traces of her youth and how we love the same
Way we are mistreated

#

Grant me witnessing all ‘round I go
Let me be uncomfortable
In my sadness
In my spite
In my veins our ancestors’ strife
Their oppression chiseled in depths
Of my subconscious—mayn’t I forget
In my every privileged sigh
In every nightmare’s death
And all of my trivial achievement
That their blood inks this gazette
That my soul echoes their last breath  
For justice—mayn’t I
Move idly and yield
To transient relief
To false gods
To defeatism
That my heart numbs
To the cries of my people
To the destruction of our homes
To the monarchy of traitors
Let me hear it everywhere I go
Let me be uncomfortable

You

carried
me long enough
that  I  could  no longer
strife and anger for myself. You
carried all these sins and melancholy
on your back, only letting me taste the
silver spoon in my mouth. You taught me
me to sit and behave, make no unappealing
sounds, but mother, your daughter belonged
to anger and strife for your mother, all her other
children, and for you whose only words breath that
of broken reassurance and empty pledges of safety. All
but a solace chant against reeking tyranny. My ears grew
accustomed
to the cacophony
of revolt in between your lullabies.
The blood of the covenant assimilated
with the water of the womb. So mother,
I ask you to pony my hair now and forgive
me. Your children will dot all
thoroughfares and bellow 'no'
for you. So you do not have
to kneel to every friend, to
ev’ry conqueror, stroke their
*****, then cry yourself to sleep