Immigrant Mother

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 as
Many as
2 jobs
& still find
time
to
teach her
child
how to
sew her own
doll clothes &
tell her
she can be
anything
she wants
to
be
(thank you mommy).

She can
Pick up
The day
Old rice her
Husband
Has thrown on
The floor &
Refuses to eat
Just like she
Picks
Up
the shattered
Pieces of her
Family...


She may not
Know how
To
Ride a
Bike, but
She can
roll
the dough
& make
bake,
curry
chicken,
put toys
on layaway
&
rub
her daughter’s
back
as they sit
on a park
bench,
Runaways,
from home,
Again.

She knows
How to usher
Her children
Police-escorted
Past
Neighbors & to
The apartments
Of friends & how
never to leave
Her husband.

But,
There is
Only so
Much
An Immigrant
Mother can do,
The others,
She must learn—
like
How to take
A moment &

Stare herself
In her mirror
& say,

I can only
Do
My best,
(and accept that)

But
I will
Try,
Until
I die,
To Do
Even
Better.

Copenhagen, 2007