When I rose into the cradle of my mother's mind, she was but a girl, fighting her sisters over a flimsy doll. It's easy to forget how noiseless I could be spying from behind my mother's eyes as her mother, bulging with a baby, a real-life Tiny Tears, eclipsed the doorway with a moon. We all fell silent. My mother soothed the torn rag against her chest and caressed its stringy hair. Even before the divergence of girl from woman, woman from mother, I was there: quiet as a vein, quick as hot, brimming tears. In the decades before my birthday, years before my mother's first blood, I was already prized. Hers was a hunger that mattered, though sometimes she forgot and I dreamed the dream of orange trees then startled awake days or hours later. I could've been almost anyone. Before I was a daughter, I was a son, honeycomb clenching the O of my mouth. I was a mother— my own—nursing a beginning. Copyright © 2019 by Ama Codjoe. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 2, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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