Mother of Pearl
after Marianne Chan
.
I woke up with blonde hair, a young boy, and salt
barnacling on skin. In the water, there is a mother-
.
of-pearl. The oyster’s mouth is silver-lipped. The pearl,
a hefty price. My knuckles open the water. My mother
.
tongue is breath gasping before it speaks. My small
palm is holding a smaller palm is hoping the mother
.
of mothers inside. I swam to the shore holding both
breath and longing. There is a line and a blur, a mother
.
standing, waiting. Finding. The shortening between body
and the shore in distance, but I’m farther from my mother
.
land. I am Lolo’s boy-body buoyed in water. Lolo taught
me how to swim. He taught me how to language. Mother
.
was not the first word in my mouth. The word was baba:
meaning, father; meaning, mouth. I remember mother
.
feeding me her pearl necklaces. Her milk beads were
iridescent. Boy tongue was full. Boyhood was mother
.
less. Boys like me woke to no mothers, but mothers
of pearl. I am an heirloom in a pawnshop. My mother
.
is a portrait on the wall. My Lolo is sound found behind
a country I left. My Lolo is sitting beside my grandmother,
.
my Lola. He talks about boyhood: how he swam to farm
for pearls. I wonder if pearls wonder about their mothers.