the apricot tree

the growth of my little apricot tree,

so pregnant with promise

has this very moment reminded me

of a proverb my mother told

whenever she washed my hair.

women with child, she would say

as warm water dripped – thinning

the washcloth’s engorged fibers –

onto my shut eyelids and shoulders

have bellies like sunflower buds.

sometimes if the moon is blue

the baby won’t come out
a baby like you but a sunflower,
and mummy will plant it in a meadow

where sunlight drips down from space

and dewdrops sparkle like eyes.

and those nights, hot bath-tired

I would dream of the mothers

holding brass watering cans,

beautiful mothers smiling.

but my meadow mothers started to grieve

more and more woefully

until on the last night I dreamt of them

they were uprooting their children,

flaying petals to the bud, poisoning with salt

the soil also smeared on their hands and lips.

your story hurt me, made me sick inside.

your sunflower-children have twisted me inside
I said to my own mother, and

went away. Now, years later,

the apricots are fruiting

but I’m not hungry for them, never hungry.