I wonder when her light flickered,

when her ideas were so grand—

light bulbs bursting,

and now I walk on that broken glass.

 

I wonder when the lights dimmed.

Was it your parents, my father, or your role as a mother

that told you not to dream?

 

When did thoughts become suppressed, swept away?

Was it too unbearable,

the mind forced to forget?

That thick aroma of Fabulosa

so many Hispanic children remember

slowly replaced by the smell of the unkept.

I played with my toys, wondering when you would wake up.

 

Sometimes not until night,

then it was my turn to dream.

 

I close my eyes, wondering:

Is this what you see, Mom?

A world where women can dream?

Is this hell disguised as sanctuary,

locking us away from surfacing?

You can’t swim to the bottom

and not expect to gasp for air.

 

We were born to walk on this land,

to forget about this asylum of dreams.

 

Mom, breathe, I beg of you.

 

I awake to see my mom cooking.

A small flame on the stove keeps our food warm,

but my mom’s dreams

will always

remain

cold.