plum daughters
by Anna Song
crown my palms with ambrosia
so that the blood of a perfect plum
falls past my wrist, dripping off
the cliff of my elbow as the scent
of nectar, so sticky yet sweet,
clings onto the split ends of my hair, as an
infant child reaches for its mother.
my mother and i wage war at midnight,
only to renew peace with bitter words
burnt at the tongue, and perhaps
a platter of fruit to match sunrise-
i will continue to leave the
pits and seeds to rot in the stomach
of the bowls that once housed soups
made of MSG and plastic seasonings
in hopes that one may blossom into a
better daughter that will sleep beside
the falling sun.
and i will continue to steal peace offering,
after peace offering from the fridge,
for what else would i have to aid the moral
hangover that plagues my chest when i wake?
pray, i do not kneel by my bed at night,
but i still whisper into my pillow,
thanking god for my stomach; for if not
for my umbilicus, there would be no proof
that i came from a mother