International Market
RASHA ALKHATEEB
Photograph courtesy of Mariam AlMuheiri (@myblackipad).
Our mothers poured coffee like saltshakers
on c-section wounds, their blood sizzled,
burned, and fused into scars, as if to show they were
smarter than medicine, that all they needed to heal,
they learned from their mothers, as they sat
in hospital beds with prepaid phone cards dialing,
waiting to connect, and knowing they can’t
stay on the line long. She has a baby to feed.
Our mothers called their mothers only when
they wanted them to know they were still
alive. There’s not much to say when the call
can end at any second, mid-update. If she needs
anything, she’ll leave a missed call, our mothers
say, knowing it’s another card on the family’s
grocery list. She hauls her babies and samples
aisles, eavesdropping for a neighbor.
Our mothers would never allow us to leave them
like they did theirs. Instead, they buy bread in bulk
to store in freezers, knowing they’re set for the next
three months of the same everyday life. She calls
her daughters and tells them she wishes she felt
like a mother. She has no one to talk to, no one to answer
the phone. Our mothers are used to being alone,
they wouldn’t know how not to feel like that anymore.
Photography courtesy of Mariam Almuheiri.
Photography courtesy of Mariam Almuheiri.
Rasha Alkhateeb is a Palestinian-American poet and received her MFA in Creative Writing & Publishing Arts from The University of Baltimore.