My Mother’s Hands by Maia Elsner

shed coral scales
& sunrise. In England, the inside

is ashen. She touches tangerine flowers,
when a woman

exiting her home in Camberwell cries,
go back to where you come from, as if

she carries still the scent
of dragon-fruit. I swallow

cherry stones. I flower
your abandoned garden

in my belly, to carry in me the whispers
of all your lost colours. I dream

in shades of lilac. Sometimes
my tummy hurts.

From: https://www.thewhitereview.org/poetry/my-mothers-hands/

Date: 2019

By: Maia Elsner (1995- )

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