For M

they whispered about her infront of her children
claiming they remembered her, or rather

the christmases when everything she bought them
did not fit. this was a sign, they say, that she

never bothered to know them.
she was a mystery to the youngest

sister for she ran off to a convent and said prayers to a god
whom she denounced years after, finding

the right footstool for her faith
and knowing somehow that she

would always be better than who she was
then - a hollow child who breathed her life into

words and dreamt of gold to fill herself, instead
of mopping the floors and helping mother

create kamote sweets to feed the rich.
rich is what she wanted to be. imagine

the length of chances, the various lives she can lead.
her dreams were monsters, they say.

her children hear them whisper that she died of wanting,
of having known hunger and not fearing it. it is late and

they decide to move on to the part of
the narrative when it is already night time. in the scene,

she has snapped. she is commanding everyone
to move out of the house she had bought with

foreign blood. she screamed at their mother. imagine that.
disregard the fact that she was a stranger to them - a stray

wound that everyone forgot existed.
this is their favorite memory of her - she

lying on a yellow sofa, death leaning over her
shoulder. she whispers that she is sorry

but by now, she doesn't know that she's
even saying it. or to whom. it was the

morphine talking, carelessly moving around,
finding resurrection in her veins. it told her stories

of grandeur, stories that she passed
on to her frightened children.

in her passing, her sisters do not
remember her loving notes.

they do not remember her smiles that said
see me. know that i am here.but they are reminded of

everything else - the smell of weakness on
her clothes, fistfuls of her tears, her loss.

they smile a knowing smile.her children,
orphans now, do not say a word. they traipse

down to their newfound sadness and wonder if it is
all true. but when they dream, they

see the bright blue flame of her body. she
advises them not to hurry towards her.

in the morning, they remember their hearts,
so constricted with love that again, they are emptied out.
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this poem is for my mother, who always smelled of summer rain.