Cajun” Imitation Poem

By Rina Weng Mother An imitation poem after reading “Cajun” by Sheryl St. Germain. By Rina Weng Mother An imitation poem after reading “Cajun” by Sheryl St. Germain.

I want to take the word back into my body, back from the family movies featuring parent sacrifices announcing it so proud. I want it to be the reverse, I want to see my mother minding her own joy like her children can never be her burden, not bothering herself with housework, lunch box, or toilet paper. I want to see my mother all dolled up again, hands all pale and smooth, shiny nail polish that brightens my day, best perfume staining her shirt, comforting my heart, I want to remember the pride she took working and being self-assured; it was nothing like her now with scarred hands, wrinkles between her brows, jailed in the cramped space that she called home. I want to take the word back into my body, back from the family movies featuring parent sacrifices announcing it so proud. I want it to be the reverse, I want to see my mother minding her own joy like her children can never be her burden, not bothering herself with housework, lunch box, or toilet paper. I want to see my mother all dolled up again, hands all pale and smooth, shiny nail polish that brightens my day, best perfume staining her shirt, comforting my heart, I want to remember the pride she took working and being self-assured; it was nothing like her now with scarred hands, wrinkles between her brows, jailed in the cramped space that she called home.

And what my mother used to know: how to make her own self happy, how to keep not money, be a smile, or perhaps a laugher, maintain it till she was overjoyed, needing some fresh air. And when I see the frowning face on my mother, stamping with anger and tiredness, it’s like swallowing strong acid down my soul, and when I hear her sighs in the dark nights, I feel it again, her freedom’s been stolen, like me, corroded. And what my mother used to know: how to make her self happy, how to keep not money, but a smile, or perhaps a laughter, maintain it till she was overjoyed, needing some fresh air. And when I see the frowning face on my mother, stamping with anger and tiredness, it’s like swallowing strong acid down my soul, and when I hear her sighs in the dark nights, I feel it again, her freedom’s been stolen, like me, corroded.