What They Said about My Mother
¿Setenta?
No, answered the second phlebotomist in white clogs.
¿Setenta y cinco? ¿Ochenta?
They didn’t conceal their curiosity, spoke
to each other in the tongues of quenepas, Luquillo
and sweet mango, the language of my mother.
A chorus of God bless you, so lucky.
But she is not, as she waits for the hypodermic
that will keep the tumors quiet. Cancer, a cat
that steps with sheathed claws—
Last Saturday, we climbed the streets
of Jackson Heights, with my nieces, as they led
us through the bramble of people, store fronts
with the palest gold necklaces, thick as collars.
I guessed the carats, 18, maybe? 24, my niece
shared. Spoke quickly in Bengali, a series of ascending
vowels, short clicks to her sister. I tried on dresses
smothered in sequins, beaded flowers, silvery temples.
I picked a violet tunic. Mom swayed in the white light
of the shop, her legs thin as straws and everywhere the sarees
swaggered. She fingered their flashing jewels, open necks.
I held her bones in my arms careful she wouldn’t buckle.
My nieces whispered how cute she was inside
the dark green dress. My mother so old now she becomes
a doll. Mother now daughter. Is it too much bling? she asked
me. Never enough bling. I echoed. The sales lady
rang up the sale. When I told her my mother
was ninety, she said, I’m lucky, what a gift.
• • •
Roxanne Cardona was born in New York City. Her poems have appeared in Mason, Constellations, ONE ART, Naugatuck River Review, The Field Guide to Poetry, Avalon Literary Review, Connecticut River Review, San Antonio Review and elsewhere. She was an elementary school teacher and principal in the Bronx. Her book, “Caught in the Principal’s Lens” was published July, 2024. Roxanne resides in New Jersey with her husband.