Elegy for Freedom of Feeling

And always, my mother. And Mãe, Mamãe, in my mother tongue. 

And my mother isn’t your mother. And you tune me out. 

And you’re not my brother. And I have no sister. And must I 

translate? Write my poem in your mother tongue? And some 

moms I hear say, Knock it off. And give the kid a screen. And they 

bothered to make a human. And I know, I know. Now I’m getting 

in trouble. And you judge me for judging. And I judge you for not. 

And you might as well go. And forget we talked. And I got a call. 

And my mother—a scan, a tumor. And her milk duct, removed. 

And my former source of food. And can you tap into the you 

you were—and buried? The child who feels a need? And as a mother,

I held the hunger of another. And my breasts tugged; the milk spilled. 

And do you give the scream a screen? And after the chemo, hot broth. 

And bones boiled in acidic water. And the killing force the chemo killed. 

And advancements in medicine! And checkpoint inhibitors! Immunotherapy!

And collateral damage. And white patches on the skin. And what was tan—

redacted. And checkpoints on borders. And guards that judge and banish. 

And melanocytes, the target. And white, the sign of damage. And vanity’s 

untrammeled, going strong. And my mother speaks of beauty: What’s 

the point? And, anyway, I’m old. And stop judging your feelings. And Free speech 

in the world of emotion! And don’t ban your inner books. And think of books 

by writers of color. And the body learns from nations. And pigment, effaced. 

And she’s my mother without her color. And she grieves her former face.