Mother, my mother,
I no longer recall the sweet sound of your voice
as you rocked me to sleep
in the fold of your arm.
The pitch is long forgotten,
covered by noises of my life now —
the smooth baritone of my love,
the crunch of powder snow under a firm boot,
the lilting melody
of my violin.
Mother, my mother,
I cannot feel the warm embrace
you must have given me
before leaving me to my fate.
It was summer, and yet
I remember no smothering heat
of a clasp to your ***** —
only the sweltering that happened
wrapped in my blanket
in a ditch at the side of the road
under the relentless sun.
Mother, my mother,
I have no more memories
of the homeland where I was born.
You are a distant shadow
hidden in the recesses of my mind,
but you are fading —
fading into the corners,
blending with all my other uncertainties.
I think I used to know,
but I blank when I try to remember
further than the years
I’ve been here in America.
Mother, my mother,
I do not know
even the smallest detail of my former life.
“What have I been writing?”
I am a poet, mother.
I used my imagination.
