mother(land)

As though my mother
did not rearrange her organs
for my body.

As though soil,
wet with rain,
could have held my body, pushed, laboured, screamed,
and ripped apart in my birth.

As though a mountain’s rocky valleys,
could have cradled me, nursed me –
fields sung me to sleep,
oceans rocked me and burped me.

As though her arms,
soft with age, smelling of soap,
do not already encircle as a ring of trees.

As though her body
was not already. enough
to raise a flag.

Ask me again where I am from.

I can show you the fault lines
that crinkle around her eyes.
I can tell you
these are the borders I inherit

Author of the article

Ashmita Malkani's first publication was on the street near Old Town Hall in Salem, Massachusetts, for an eight week period in the summer of 2017 when she was a winner of Mass Poetry Festival's "Migration" Poetry Contest. This will be her first online publication. She is a recent immigrant to the U.S. and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Salve Regina University.