last words of a california mother

Ema Bekic

here, i mothered the ocean—             saltwater

             as my husband,             plumes of smoke

as children.             i knew what was buried beneath 

             the duckweed:             phantom-moss girls

with seaweed bangles &              birdbaths made of granite.

            i knew 

what these damp summers             could do to the mind.

             there was a new turn at every corner—

bakery ladies wrapped in eggshell linen             &             

             coke-bottle caps             swimming

in the sewers.             my sandals slapped the dirt,             silk

dragged along cobblestone;           i was needed once.  

i knew the names the sidewalks called me            & the love            

made by the bucktoothed river            arm-in-arm            

with the railroad.

here, i mothered America & she mothered me—

cleaved water             with salmon-rusted fingers

drew sand-lines             made of tossed camouflage

spared pieces            of the oil-blood           she served for dinner.

she knows            what my name is            & 

what i’ll be called a hundred years from now            when i go back

to where i came. 

Ema Bekic is a poet from Michigan and Ontario. Most recently, her work has been published or is forthcoming in Albion Review and Pictura Journal, among others. Her work has also been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers. She will be attending Yale University in the fall.