Woman, Mouth, Leaf

In times of peace,
I see how my mother’s mouth
is a leaf. Jade, moon-pocked. The kind
of dream one enters to flee into the wilderness
of Woman. The lump in her throat pleats into a ruby-
chambered heart. Denied a sky, what use are her wings?
I know Woman of the dead dance, of pyre smoke. Woman
of Lazarus’ fire whirling in the belly. Woman of the procession
back from the mourned. I know Woman’s robe running red
before the altar. I know the toll of roots wrenched from
her nerves. I know Woman’s sun wilting in estranged
soil. Even when my mother’s mouth flowers,
no one looks up. My mother is Woman
with no poems but her daughter’s
body before the sea. Her eyes—
blessed water and salt before
the tide’s rattle. With her
sunken head, she prays
to the god who bathes
what remains of her.
She prays. I see
how Woman
prays.
Her
mouth
a leaf.