When I miss you,
I get confused about what you did or
What you were supposed to have done or
What I am supposed to believe now.

The fig tree is bare in September
Like you, you did'nt care but
at night you go out determined to
plant mustard leaves, turning out the soil
Like you were looking for something not there.

You do not want me to watch this,
Only that the moon glare guides you around
Your maternal longings at night.

Mother, when you cry,
when another year goes by,
when I am not there to care for you,
I turn out the soil for what's left of us.
I tie a bunch of feathers to the fig tree
to act as a talisman much like your shawl
which billows out as you crouch into a
bed of mustard leaves, turning out the soil.

If I hear the wind howl
It reminds me of you.
Crying in the kitchen,
the door ajar,
the lights out,
Your hands red and raw
from gutting fish.

And your feet wading through waters
smelling jasmine on your mother's skin
as she guides you along.