Dew Drops by Rocío Iglesias

My mother loved me hard enough to break my heart forever, 

to split it wide so that cedar and ironwood trees would root where the fault lines stood

she knew, even as I grew inside her, that I was her wish come true

her little girl

She named me after a soft morning shower, in the hopes that I would bring her peace

Instead, she has often been left to wonder where on earth I came from

and forced to be the impatient steward of my weird

hours spent searching for perfect baby girl dresses

that I eschewed for ripped t-shirts and bare feet

She used to pull me under the covers on Sunday mornings and wrap me up in her sheets

showing me, even then, that I am worth holding on to 

Her love is like sunlight, 

turning the watermark of expulsion and diaspora into something

unbent, beguiling yet somehow honest

shimmering in cloudy water,

the last gleaming thing in this gutted, splintered earth

Rocío Iglesias is a queer Cuban-American poet. Her work has appeared in various print and electronic publications and can most recently be found in Firmament Magazine and Brave Voices Magazine. She lives, breathes, and works in Minneapolis, MN.