I am my mother’s language
kneaded among the discolored patches of my skin &
I am teeth skidding across waters
salt collecting on rolled tongues &
she is smattered against condemnation
in a country whose flag bears colors akin to her own
I am not my mother’s patience
nor am i the flecks of green in her warm gaze
I am not her freckled hands
nor am i the soft lines on her pallid skin
I thumb through bible pages
and name a testament after women &
their crimson hands carving resilience
wringing out sodden wounds
with every exhale of their breath
against wood and concrete
I am my mother’s tears
and she is the flit of illumination that follows them