The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2018

Maria de la Luz Jesus Cobain Often times I catch myself staring At my mother’s tired face, wondering Why the wrinkles came so early, And where each scar came from. I think if I focus hard enough, I can almost see how they came to be. I think the worry lines that run across Her head are the hundreds of miles She’s walked back and forth from here To Mexico. I think this would age Her quite a bit, and maybe if she stayed She could be around another fifteen years, Or maybe she would have died young. Her arthritis ridden hands have got to be All the beds she has had to make, The floors she had to scrub While on her knees, begging the Lord For a better life. Although I want to believe Her hands are that way because she knits, She wants to leave her grandchildren, Something to remember her by. She knows She won’t live to see them. The bags under her eyes might not be her own. They probably belong to all the nights of sleep Combined with Fabian/Benigno/Ramon/Raul/Fidencio, Lost to meth/meth/meth/meth/alcohol. I’m worried that she’s getting tired of dealing With the same story on repeat. The Meadow 151