Mom

Sweaty fingertips color my skin
mixture cafunés in my hair,

drag affection through my fiber threads.
My stare reflects in my mother’s gaze,

eye-to-eye I see myself in her. I look at the
years gaping mountains carving through her face.

Glimpsing the mangled spinal cord of ancestry,
I crawl in my mother’s back. Reviving the

sugared tangerine taste of childhood
I hug tightly the body that gave me life,

eggshell white lines through her living home.
Our hands clasp with the bond beyond this realm

I baptize my flesh with her scent, touch the
silent trace of my identity in yellowed smile,

vibrant red lips, and flowered dress.
Folded for too long, the crumples are still

visible in the delicate paths around her eyes.
With the surface of my nails, I unearth lost stories,

an immortal past I kiss with dry lips.
The hummingbird in her chest refuses to die,

even after her face became hardened with tropical sun,
my mother still possesses a furious racing heart

that speaks with mason jar honey voice,
holds me up to the sticky sun

letting me taste the dawning of the universe
and the bittersweet coated air.

By Luiza Louback