by: Yin Fei

i don’t hate how my mom

insists on using a fine tooth comb

to brush the twisted locks that

have tangled my hair,

how she tries to yank at the prop 

in punishment 

ever since the bearer

split her heart 

two strands. 

i don’t hate the way 

she knocks my head

like a cheap watermelon 

she haggled for so passionately

at the farmers market 

or the way she wonders if 

injecting sweet nectar 

would sate a sin and

quench her thirst for life. 

i don’t hate her 

for the never heard, never spoken

my mom who

came into the kitchen and diced her 

apologies on 

my plate.

she served sorries to 

an empty

blue platter and

asked me to say

Grace. 

i don’t hate her for hiding her 

true speech with a fan and 

for pressing me to swallow 

the words that wished to

leap from my tongue,

for when i started to choke,

when my throat constricted 

around all i wanted to say

and i simply ate the

seconds of silence

once more.

again and again,

i will not hate the mother 

i do not like.