Foliage

The day I found grandma in
my mother’s forehead and closed eyes I
saw red & gold foliage. In the stories

she used to tell me a bird saves a mountain.
I don’t remember much of my childhood only
the smell of freshly escaped crabs tucked
away in the cracks of sofas and atlas holding

the weight of the sky. My mother and I are both born
on the slippery ends of words but I have never
tasted hers and she mine. My words are too

complicated for her broken English and hers
crackled in the flames of her past. Sometimes I am

ashamed that the English language slips
off my tongue without effort and every time she
reads my words they drench her in red & gold.

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