she could have killed the seed
sprouting inside her belly,
the nine months before it was born.
she could have wished for a miscarriage,
she wouldn’t have to go hungry
to nourish its roots.
in return the son gave her pain
and contractions,
saliva, vomit, and urine.
yet, she wrapped her fragile child
in delicate sarong,
carried him through war-wounded soil.
her feet worn and torn
from dirt, rocks, hills, and mountains
from twigs, thorns, foliage, and forest.
she could have left him for dead
when guerrillas gave chase
instead, she left behind her culture,
leaving behind her traditions.
seventy-five hundred miles across the ocean,
i was the child she embraced!
her feet peeled and bled
from sand, salt, reefs, and rivers
from shrubs, marsh, broken glass, and asphalt.
a story is told of a prostitute,
“bowing at the feet of the messiah,
weeping and wiping them with the hair of her head.”
billows of wasted tears flood the room.
i am my mother’s flesh and blood
locked behind the concrete and bars,
without the chance to wash the feet that carried me,
the feet that now age with scales dry as the desert,
the feet that have endured time and the elements.
so I cry these words
for all sons and daughters to ponder:
pay homage to your mother!
her feet are tired. | KS
KOSAL SO IS THE SON OF A REFUGEE MOTHER FROM CAMBODIA. HE WRITES BECAUSE IT ALLOWS HIM TO EXIST IN THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.
Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem you have written.