Other Mothers

You will scare the other mothers- she said

you are scaring me, I have never heard a mother

as a lion. I imagine your hair as a mane, quivering

with each scream that slips under the doorframe.

Your face, shivering where the forehead meets the

hairline, where red cheeks meet soft jaw meet

sweating neck, scared much more than the mothers

who hear you.

I have never seen my mother as a lion, run

ragged, run out of safety to give me. Inside you,

there is a life and a small piece of rage, bubbling up

and out through your mouth instead of into your arms.

She tells you your screaming will

scare others, as if there's nothing dead inside

you. I want to claw at her, at her thin lips,

her flabby arms, rip her jaw open with a

crack and drag out her teeth, her tongue.

I am sitting on a cold metal bench outsided your door,

and I don't think she knows how it feels to push out

something as cold as a body with no heartbeat.

Nikita Kohring ‘24

I wrote this piece during Patricia Smith’s visit. It is written from the perspective of a child waiting outside the mother’s door.

Lost Daughter

I know only of crowded safety.

Of the humming of whispers placed on mama’s stomach.

Of ginger kisses, of potholes hidden beneath an old Nissan truck.

Of mama’s lullabies, of Beethoven's 9th, of Mozart’s Jupiter symphony, of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor.

Of swaying when mama dances to the muffled sounds of street music on the balcony.

My eyes are closed, but I am awake, I am here, and I love you.

I do not hear time passing, but I do  hear more silence than before, I have not listened to mama’s gentle singing for a long time.

Instead, I listen to the familiar plops of hot tears, burning my mama-made flesh.

I want to tell her, mama, I am here.

Mama, why are you crying?

I give her soft gentle pats on her stomach. 

I rock her to sleep.

I sway silently and firmly, as I whisper my own songs of love to her. 

Mama, your heart is a cannon that I hold in my hands, I cannot take the weight much longer.

Mama, do not let anyone tell you that your womb is half broken.

Mama, you still have me.

Hold my mama-made body.

Mama, it is not your fault.

Mama, it is not your fault.

Mama, it is not your fault.

Mama, you are all the family I need.

Mama, look at me. 

Hold me like a potter, mold me as your own.

I do not care about the lumps.

I lift my fingers towards mama’s throat, collecting the sting of tears.

I let them cover my skin.

It is the only warmth I can get.

My eyes are closed, but I am awake.

Do not mistake my silence for death, mama, I am still here.

Mama, am I a blessing or a reminder of a half completed hit job?

Mama, play me your lullabies.

Play me Beethoven's 9th.

Play me Mozart’s Jupiter symphony of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor.

Dance on the balcony again.

Mama, do you hate me?

Do you want me dead?

I have seen more corpses than humans.

Mama, I can go if you want me to.

I do not hear you anymore.

Mama, do you love me?

Mama, it is not your fault.

Mama, it is not your fault.

Mama, it is not your fault.

Karmiah Smith ‘26

This piece was inspired by Patricia Smith, a multitalented poet who came to Dreyfoos to present her work and to talk to the students. She prompted us to write a piece about an unspoken conversation, which led to this piece.