Drainwater

Noreen Ocampo

My mother’s flag swells with
the same colors as my own, but my skin

would burn under the golden sun
from which hers was forged, unaccustomed to

the love of a sky overripe & vermilion.
She dices mangoes in steady palms that held

blood just hours prior, her knife
splitting flesh & fingers pressing a blade

into mine moments later. I slice
fruit clumsily & do not cup the sunlight

messily weeping over my knuckles,
wondering if my mother will fill our

silent chasm, ask if I have reconsidered
learning the family ritual of weaving

breaths back together. Instead,
she is quiet, dicing mangoes in steady palms.

I tell her that if I imagine my blade
as a pen on paper, I slice more smoothly

& she laughs, tells me that I was
always destined for creation rather than

resurrection, muses over what could
have been if I had learned to create life

in our own tongue. Her golden sun
could have been mine, too. But instead,

I am silent, unloved by the sunlight
weeping over my knuckles & into the drain.