My mother’s flag swells with 

              the same colors as my own, but my skin 

 

would burn under the golden sun

              from which hers was forged, unaccustomed to 

 

the love of a sky overripe & vermilion. 

              She dices mangoes in steady palms that held 

 

blood just hours prior, her knife 

              splitting flesh & fingers pressing a blade 

 

into mine moments later. I slice 

              fruit clumsily & do not cup the sunlight 

 

messily weeping over my knuckles, 

              wondering if my mother will fill our 

 

silent chasm, ask if I have reconsidered 

              learning the family ritual of weaving 

 

breaths back together. Instead, 

              she is quiet, dicing mangoes in steady palms. 

 

I tell her that if I imagine my blade 

              as a pen on paper, I slice more smoothly 

 

& she laughs, tells me that I was 

              always destined for creation rather than 

 

resurrection, muses over what could 

              have been if I had learned to create life 

 

in our own tongue. Her golden sun 

              could have been mine, too. But instead, 

 

I am silent, unloved by the sunlight 

              weeping over my knuckles & into the drain. 

 

Noreen Ocampo