Another month not a mother
and 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 counters
are forever scented by lemons she juiced
over a decade ago, the lingering perfume
heady, pungent, sweet.
The lemon tree is now replaced
by a mango tree, heavy with fruit
dappled 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 daughter
through the scorch of Florida summer,
perhaps I’d sprout up with a baby
pulsating at my center,
my own little seed.
Photo by Jannik Selz on Unsplash
