Mother

This is what you become—someone else other than the girl  
who once upon a time was given her own name. This is how 
the intimate contours of that name disappear into the stew, 
into the suds of laundry, into the mending and out again as holes 
multiply. Nanay, Inang, Mother. Stepmother, Madrasta, Mother-
in-law, -outlaw, unwed and undone by motherhood. This is 
the moment of the day that starts with a trickle at the tap, 
that moves like molasses through the lean months, that rushes 
out in a torrent because you did not keep something back for that 
rainy day. You are purse and bank, strings wound twice around 
an old broomstick to keep it useful one more season. You are 
poultice and emetic, the ache down the spine and the muscles 
of the forearm, the bits of food and bile that come up gurgling,  
then the swish with mouthwash because mother is also a mouth 
for kissing, for doling out sweets even as she swallows blame.