The Wars She Whispered

I came into this world screaming.

And every day has been nothing but a war ever since.

I often feel the blood seeping—

From my mother’s hands,

Into the soil, on my clothes, and in the meat they ask me to mince.

They drop grenades every day,

“Smile a little more” is the most common,

And I think they like leading my resolve astray,

Muffling my mother’s voice

As they label my becoming an omen.

The fires stretch along the horizon,

The smoke fills my lungs.

When I hand them the cauldron,

My mother’s voice,

A bell that rung.

Sometimes I trace my calloused hands,

As I peek out at the open sky.

I think of a possibility—

Where I’m in the stands,

And I hear my mother when she says,

“To try.”