Mother To Mother

By Ambata Kazi-Nance

Her eyes are not my eyes.

Weary and cloudy as a gray sky.

A light dimmed by poverty.

Rivers of pain

run deep,

deep.

Our eyes touch.

She speaks to me

with those eyes.

Her hunger whispers to me,

‘You could be me.’

 

We are both mothers.

 

Her eyes are not my eyes.

They tell stories of pain.

Of hunger.

Sadness. A loss of hope.

Dreams vanished long ago.

Laughter died.

Only ashes of happiness remain.

 

Her hands are not my hands.

Rough.

Dirty.

Lines of hard work

etched deep,

deep.

Too tired,

too worn down,

to wipe away tears.

Empty.

No sweet things

to fill empty mouths.

 

Her feet are not my feet.

Bare.

Bruised.

Miles and miles underneath.

Tracks of filth.

Battered by concrete.

Numbed by cold.

I have not walked

even a step

in her shoes.

But we are both mothers.

 

Her son is not my son.

Pushed into a world of pain.

Slapped with the hand of poverty.

His eyes are not my son’s eyes.

His eyes don’t dance

like my son’s eyes.

Too young,

too soon,

light extinguished.

Laughter gone away.

His eyes whisper to me,

‘Hunger.’

I look into his eyes

and see myself.

 

Will he go to school?

Will he run and kick a ball?

Will he giggle as the grass

tickles his toes?

Will he smile?

Will he live?

 

I am not her.

She is not me.

Our eyes touch

then turn away.

Between us

An ocean

We cannot cross.

But we are both mothers.

 

Ambata Kazi-Nance is a writer and teacher from New Orleans, LA. Her work has appeared in Azizah Magazine, Free to Breastfeed: Voices from Black Mothers, Grow Mama Grow, and Love Inshallah. Her short story Rahma was featured in Mixed Company, a collection of short fiction and visual art by women of color in New Orleans in 2015. She is currently an MFA student at the University of New Orleans.