My Mother

My mother was not a poet,
nor did she electrify
the world with her voice.
She sang and turned the lights on,
polished floors,
and washed dishes in a restaurant.
Once, she was a tailor in Madrid during
the fascist regime.
She pawned her gold,
bracelets, golden coins,
necklaces with images of
Mary or the cross.
She never went to church,
but she would light candles
to grant miracles that no God
could guarantee.
She would hold your hand
as if she were holding
the world in one piece.
My mother was a communist.
My mother was not a poet.
She visited my brother in prison
and could feel the ugliness
of the officers and the walls,
carelessly clean and touched
by salmonella and cruelty.
With broken lips,
my brother smiled,
his radio was the plunder,
and a knife the resolve.
"I am okay," he said, and she nodded.
She carried her shopping bags,
slept in the summer at lunchtime,
when the birds pause,
and the sun screams.
She worked as if everything needed
to be made from scratch.
We were her followers,
evangelists without gospel,
cook assistants without knives.
There are no videos of her verses,
no books with her signature.
She was not born in Singapore or
India to diplomats.
My mother was a child during
the Spanish Civil War,
learned to read by memorizing
street names.
My mother was not a poet
dedicated to turning words into rhymes.
She moved diligently
through life, holding falling trees,
listening as she swept
memories and old wishes.