Pichchenda Bao
MOTHER TONGUE
My mother once told me,
“When you were born,
they kept calling you black.
So I named you Diamond.”
What I took away was not
how precious I am,
but how much she wanted
to brighten my darkness.
She tells me stories
in Khmer though,
so I could be wrong.
Khmer being slippery
like memories,
kapek kapok.
If this is a true story,
what else can I remember?
Were we standing
at the kitchen counter?
Me, crushing garlic,
clipping the tips of green beans,
as I watched her
with the old meat cleaver
slamming through bone and sinew.
Every meal full of shards
I quickly learned to pick out.
One time, my mother said,
“Your father loved me
until you were born,
you know.”
Her face so full of longing
I knew she didn’t see me.
My face like my father’s face,
same shape and shadow.
One day she will tell me
she had always wanted a daughter first.
But not before she says,
“Women can’t be as smart as men.”
She cuts flowers from her yard
to supplement the bouquets
her grown children send.
She says, “I know flowers die so quickly,
but I want them anyway.”
Originally published in MER 24.
Pichchenda Bao is a Cambodian American poet and writer. Her most recent work has been published in The Offing, SWWIM, and elsewhere. She is co-editor of the poetry anthology, Braving the Body (Harbor Editions). She has received fellowships and support from Aspen Words, Kundiman, Bethany Arts Community, and Queens Council on the Arts. More at www.pichchendabao.com.