Mother

a poem by Roger B Rueda

She still minces it in little bites, the pith of a banana,

mung bean sprouts slick and shiny, lumpia wrap

blooming  from the pads  of her fingers,

until each seam gleams from her mother’s touch.

She tweaks sticky rice, each grain

twice-rinsed, to free the starch,

to feed this son, strengthen the march

of those suckling’s legs she recalls, the thump

and pull as he swam up from

the hollow sway beneath her ribs.

Her hand cupped on her middle, back

then she imagined him a sharp-tailed prawn,

fizzing pink curl of flesh,

anemone in a sweetened sea.

He belongs to me, she had held,

hollowing mangoes with the bowl of her spoon.

Giving she knows: to live. So even now,

Molo balls grow fat and rich in broth,

gabi, bangos, radish, string beans,

tamarind leaves  for soup. He will always

want sinigang, when he comes.

She’ll boil water later, sauté aubergine with eggs,

as good as that wife might wish

she could make, that wife who keeps

him, so distant, for years now,

in a country she’s never seen,

where she knows, just knows,

the bangos is never fresh,  the sinigang

so saline or  bland from lack of tamarind sap.