My mother wants more for me
than she’s ever had.
She was pressured to say „yes‟;
to use her hips that were not yet developed
before her lips were formed enough to say „no‟.
My mother sends me to a school
she cannot afford.
My hand is raised, my arm stretched.
I want to say “Call on me.
I want to tell you about the courage of my mother.”
My mother has flat feet, forcing her heels
that know no shoes to walk to her parents home
in the village where she was born.
To find them before death finds them,
and say, “I forgive you.”
Her pain gives her wisdom
and her wisdom gives us both wings.
Nimo H. Farah
Copyright © 2014
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