For M

they whispered about her infront of her children.
they claimed that 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 - why their feet were made of
sand and stone during the times when they

were children. 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. she was undone, disgruntled, reimbursed from gods she did not acknowledge. her children hear them whisper that she died of wanting,

of having known hunger. 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 all her life, there were no arms around her. 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 is whispering 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.