by Luz Castaneda
The stories she was never told
she sees her mother’s sturdy armor only after she bites
into crispy red water, falls
down on spongy breasts full of nourishing nectar
pooling in the lap, full
of regrets disguised as strawberry
juice, too full to mother
and hidden behind the sorrow, she finds
an untouched wedding
dress, a faded flame
she remembers stories of burning ants
tilling holes in cheeks, stale
pomegranate seeds stuck in pearly teeth
she remembers ruby is the sound
of vulnerability ransacked
naked and worn
as the inside of a rotten watermelon,
as the smile of a once-seething carrot now wilted,
as the shattering of vine-ripened cherry tomatoes
but beyond the thick layers still, she finds
a nucleus, concealed from twitching eyes and greedy fingers
that strum the strings and pulls the cords
when her mother is exposed, with nothing
to hold her innards
she clasps herself shut,
keeping the oozing contained
she pulls on a soft shell,
that becomes firm and tough
she sings cinnabar lullabies
sorrowful, Allahu sha zamagul,
she grows claws, two vacant chambers,
snapping to the rhythm of severed
wagging tongues.
Vay, vay, vay, vay.
Sabina Khan-Ibarra is a writer and an educator. She is a recent San Francisco State University Graduate with an MFA in Creative Writing. She currently resides in Northern California with her husband and two children.
Luz Castaneda was born in Brazil to Brazilian and Spanish parents. Since 2014, she has been living and working as an artist in NYC. She is a self-taught artist, a biologist, Ph.D. in Genetics, educator and researcher in the sacred language of nature. Her research and artwork are a combination of her artistic soul and scientific mind. Her art has been exhibited in multiple galleries in the United States and Brazil. www.luzcastaneda.com