Her unrelenting certitude is as irritating
as her criticisms of other peoples’ food and
her refusal to let anyone cook in her kitchen.
She tells me God doesn’t lie– to have faith.
A leap is a star many say can be reached, but I’ve seen
a small frog in the middle of the road, dead from
curiosity or maybe from wanting to live.
My body is dead wood.
Am I a good lover?
I can no longer dance how I used to
when Mother wasn’t looking, and I’d listen
to songs of the flesh. Mother tells me not to profess
an ailment I don’t have. She says it’s all in my head.
Sometimes, I can’t brush my hair or pick up a spoon.
Sometimes, I don’t feel beautiful. And then, I’m faced with guilt and shame.
I should pretend everything is fine;
I should smile all the time, and
not let anyone in my kitchen.
Mother hasn’t visited.
When she calls, I lie about what I made for dinner.
She tells me it sounds good.
I don’t indulge her truth. I don’t disclose how
I’ve been at my lowest, and suddenly,
I’m graced with a brief interlude, a moment of comfort
sufficient enough to consider the firefly and its light,
the wings of a hummingbird,
the way a weeping willow thrives,
offering its leaves to cover, stretching
its branches to hold– like a golden hug, transferring
an energy unknown yet familiar to the spirit.
It’s because she hasn’t given up.
I can feel when she’s praying.
A Pushcart and Best of the Net-nominee, Elaine Nadal is the author of When and Sweat, Dance, Sing, Cut, published by Finishing Line Press. Her work has appeared in several journals, including Haunted Waters Press, Hoot Review, Grasslimb, and Latino Book Review Magazine.