I
Father could only pray that fathering lasted 216 months,
no duties and obligations, never to return.
On the 217th month, his manumission papers would arrive
by mail or online. Mom? Couldn’t bear to live.
But life, or the god he so much believes in
had other plans for him,
an unemployed child who writes and
a schizophrenic one who loves to sleep.
Don’t tease me, wondering which offspring I am,
for the voices in my head are manageable & sane.
And my brother still thinks I killed our mom,
he told me this last August, without a qualm.
II
On a winter afternoon, back in São Paulo,
my mom ate me with her hooded eyes and said
“Farewell, I love you, but my time is up. One day you will understand.”
We had Frida Kahlo’s movie on, and I never saw mom again.
The jailbird kept leaving to work and do charity,
he dated all wandering souls; he banned
my silly brother and me from his life,
following mom’s path, busy with his arts and crafts.
The immaculate prisoner threw all her memories away,
even if those two liabilities were sad — us —,
even if it had been only a day, he couldn’t wait.
Off with the memories, he was almost free.
III
My beloved and unbalanced younger brother,
who’s actually two years older,
had planned to reunite mom and me, he said
“Prepare to hug the witch in hell!”
He acted upon it, but I’m Machiavel, so
he ended up moving in with nonna, and I ended up alone.
I know he should, perhaps, be in jail
but we already have a jailbird in this poem, don’t we?
I excused myself from the scene, tired of being the snotter
while the jailbird still plays family with what is left of that poor soul…
As for me, far-off and trying to be kind and whole,
am proudly known as the ungrateful daughter.
Apr 23
Apr 23, 2026 at 4:54 PM UTC
I
Father could only pray that fathering lasted 216 months,
no duties and obligations, never to return.
On the 217th month, his manumission papers would arrive
by mail or online. Mom? Couldn’t bear to live.
But life, or the god he so much believes in
had other plans for him,
an unemployed child who writes and
a schizophrenic one who loves to sleep.
Don’t tease me, wondering which offspring I am,
for the voices in my head are manageable & sane.
And my brother still thinks I killed our mom,
he told me this last August, without a qualm.
II
On a winter afternoon, back in São Paulo,
my mom ate me with her hooded eyes and said
“Farewell, I love you, but my time is up. One day you will understand.”
We had Frida Kahlo’s movie on, and I never saw mom again.
The jailbird kept leaving to work and do charity,
he dated all wandering souls; he banned
my silly brother and me from his life,
following mom’s path, busy with his arts and crafts.
The immaculate prisoner threw all her memories away,
even if those two liabilities were sad — us —,
even if it had been only a day, he couldn’t wait.
Off with the memories, he was almost free.
III
My beloved and unbalanced younger brother,
who’s actually two years older,
had planned to reunite mom and me, he said
“Prepare to hug the witch in hell!”
He acted upon it, but I’m Machiavel, so
he ended up moving in with nonna, and I ended up alone.
I know he should, perhaps, be in jail
but we already have a jailbird in this poem, don’t we?
I excused myself from the scene, tired of being the snotter
while the jailbird still plays family with what is left of that poor soul…
As for me, far-off and trying to be kind and whole,
am proudly known as the ungrateful daughter.
