In the car, shreds of 8am light pool in the half-moons under her eyes.
She tells me she’s been searching all her life - her spine now a heavy
root, from years of reaching and stretching and slipping to keep
ends meeting. She is an olive tree in a perpetual storm,
refusing to be displaced.
Sometimes she shifts. Just a little.
Anger pours hot coals in the pit of her stomach, splits her tongue
into a bitter whip until black smoke blows through her mouth.
In her village, she tells me, she watched many close to her fall. She tells me,
when she was young, there were murmurs of dreamers hearing an oasis
calling, whispering honey as they slept and schemed
They let the sweetness drip in deep waves. She says,
she wants to experience just once, if
it is as warm as those dreamers vowed.
For my mother, I am trying to learn what freedom looks like
in this body of mine. What it tastes like in this mouth or
feels like running through the thick of my hair and the small
of my hands. I am trying to grasp freedom with my teeth,
the tips of my toes. Trying to catch it on my eyelash,
for her.
She does not know freedom.
Has never known freedom
but I’ve seen it
looking good, sauntering elsewhere.
I want it.
The choice to go
where I choose when I am ready.