Lindsay Li

Mother Ode (Suspiria)

Mother of sighs. Mother
of chilled pear juice, of tossing
the mottled bananas out.

Mother of slow driving, the volume
on the radio turning up then down
then up, gripping the wheel

to focus on steering, fingers white
as rice. Mother of porcelain, pretty
even when shattered, lid

to base. Mother of dismay
as she buys a replacement
cup. Mother of do-it

herself for her children, box cutter
slogging through foam boards
to cut up the trifold, blade grazing

her palm as she moves to wipe
brow-sweat. Mother of darkening
face, strawberry nose, of flattening

hand when she moves to strike, rage
welling in her troubled eyes. Mother
of scorn. Mother of a mother

of hand-knitting, passed down
the ancestral ladder. Mother
of a daughter. Mother

as a daughter, of ink
blotted bedrooms, mattress sinking
into the dull evening as she waits

for slumber. Mother of
money, mother of money spinning
out the car window.

Mother of vacuums swallowing
dust and desolation. Mother of
ups and downs like the radio

droning programs
until a crash silences it. Mother of choking
down water, throat too tight to swallow

another dose of marriage. Mother, it’s time
to switch off the radio and speak.

Lindsay Li is a Chinese American writer based in the Bay Area. In her free time, she attempts to unite history with the coming future, goes down Wikipedia rabbit holes, and writes anything that comes to mind.