The Things My Mama Never Told Me
My Mama never told me
that I am a collection
of unsent letters (the ones she keeps from me, hidden in her dresser)
made only to ease guilt
and profess love (I doubt it’s true, though,
this family’s known to be constantly wavering).
Instead, she whispers,
“You are from constellations”—
But I scoff before she even finishes.
I don’t want to come from stars—
I like to tell myself that I do not need the darkness.
My Mama never told me
that calloused fingers (clumsily) crafted me.
I always wondered why my hands
were never soft enough to carry roses:
they were made for thorns.
Although, she croons,
“You are from the grace of a budding flower”
But I laugh, humorlessly—
I know that I am not made from my grandmother’s daintiness—
I convince myself that my limbs are made for battle.
My Mama never told me
that I am a reflection
of the Maya birds that never sing, never fly—
but watch the world fall asleep
during moments that should never be missed.
Despite this, she beckons,
“You are from a violin’s tune, sweet and careful”
But I ignore this, shaking my head—
I am from noisy 4 a.m. calls and 2. a.m. nightmare shouts.
There is nothing careful about me.
My Mama never told me
that I am the roughest of the angels’ bow and arrow
I am not made to strike people with love or compassion—
I was made to wake them up.
God tells the angels to use me in times of war—
times when people need to feel the heat of reality.
Nevertheless, she insists,
“You are from Heaven’s favorite lullaby”
But I tell her no—
I am not made from a lullaby:
but from a declaration of war.
So, Mama, the next time you sugarcoat
all my rough edges,
the next time you try and hide the faded
parts of me,
I will tell you that I know much better.
I am not made from pretty, fragile things—
I am made from Heaven’s secrets (the ones the Bible never tells)
But do not worry, Mama, I do not seek to be pretty—
there are greater things that I am made from, and for.
Marikit Salvador is a Grade 9 student at Paref-Woodrose.
2 poems
