Another month not a motherand I let a plane carry me to mine;salt streaks on my face,lump lodged secure in my throat,womb empty and perfect—
walls unburdened by embryos.
My mother’s kitchen countersare forever scented by lemons she juicedover a decade ago, the lingering perfumeheady, pungent, sweet.
The lemon tree is now replacedby a mango tree, heavy with fruitdappled in oranges and greens,branches bowed by their bearing.
Maybe if I was planted in her garden,I would be fertile, too.
Wrap me in banana leaves,let me sit in the window sill to germinate.Watch my roots spring alive and wriggle,green fingers searching—
tuck me into warm and welcoming earth.
If she watered her sleeping daughterthrough the scorch of Florida summer,
perhaps I’d sprout up with a babypulsating at my center,my own little seed.
Photo by Jannik Selz on Unsplash