There is Only so much an Immigrant Mother Can do. She can Carry Key Food Grocery Bags In each hand Full of Refined Sugar, white bread, a gallon Of milk & white Rice-- Food, Stripped Of all It’s Value… She can Call home, down to Trinidad, In a public Phone booth (with a stolen credit card number) & say: Everything all right, While her Children Gather About her Knees, and know otherwise... When she is in The silence Of her Brooklyn room, She Can get down On both Knees, light Colorful Candles To Saints & pray that they do All that she Can not do, Like: Give her Strength, Pay her Bills & Protect her from her husband. She can Load a Washing machine With the tattered Clothes of her Family, Make cow- Heal soup on Sundays & make That Orange Juice Stretch. She can Visit her Children Locked Up In Their Room & Conduct A stand-up Routine in her Worn-from-use Night-gown, large pink Plastic Rollers, wearing no Dentures & so Cheer them up (thank you Mommy). She can Work...
