i watched mom transplant seedlings yesterday
saw her tuck bushy-eyed roots
into the soil between
our fence and back-porch,
a rugged land of terracotta.
i wouldn’t mind seeing growth
blush the parched clay,
watch plantlets spring
from the earth,
pretty like the thought of
youth: the sun of ephemeral summer and
mom’s hands combing my hair
after chlorine swims.
no, i wouldn’t mind at all.
but, the water,
poured from her pear-green pail,
isn’t their only drink.
they suckle on
sweat dripping from her brow,
and pinpricks of hope
trickling down peach-tinged cheeks.
it’s the same way
I suckled on her tits until they dehydrated,
drooped,
dead trees bending over their dead roots,
unknowingly mothers still.
and if the fickle seedlings
drown themselves in the epiphany or
drink too close to the sun
and wither,
she’ll bury them in her red, living heart,
grieve like dewdrops in the morning,
arriving and dissipating, unexpectedly and infinitely.
so i wish sprouts grew their roots into legs
and cotyledons leafed as arms.
i’d tell them how terrible it is to be mothered all your life,
teach the euphoria of rebellion like
robin williams teaches poetry because
there are too many mothers giving still.
into the soil between
our fence and back-porch,
a rugged land of terracotta.
i wouldn’t mind seeing growth
blush the parched clay,
watch plantlets spring
from the earth,
pretty like the thought of
youth: the sun of ephemeral summer and
mom’s hands combing my hair
after chlorine swims.
no, i wouldn’t mind at all.
but, the water,
poured from her pear-green pail,
isn’t their only drink.
they suckle on
sweat dripping from her brow,
and pinpricks of hope
trickling down peach-tinged cheeks.
it’s the same way
I suckled on her tits until they dehydrated,
drooped,
dead trees bending over their dead roots,
unknowingly mothers still.
and if the fickle seedlings
drown themselves in the epiphany or
drink too close to the sun
and wither,
she’ll bury them in her red, living heart,
grieve like dewdrops in the morning,
arriving and dissipating, unexpectedly and infinitely.
so i wish sprouts grew their roots into legs
and cotyledons leafed as arms.
i’d tell them how terrible it is to be mothered all your life,
teach the euphoria of rebellion like
robin williams teaches poetry because
there are too many mothers giving still.
Carina Solis is a fifteen-year-old & African American writer from Villa Rica, Georgia. She is passionate about writing, reading romance fantasy, singing, running, and anything chocolate. She has been recognized as a Scholastic Art & Writing National Medalist and in some local and state competitions. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Teen Ink and the Ice Lolly Review, among others.