inherited grief

China Roberto, Philippines

my mother gave me a prism,
a sharp-edged thing, delicate, shaped with her own hands.
still i see her fingertips glide upwards, peak forming between the pads,
cool crystal against ridges of her skin, smooth, soft, ivory-like,
and i shudder, as she presses, deep; a finite point, an indentation against flawless surface,
speaks and says: “scatter,” and out colorfully tumbles all of me,
save for that shaken feeling: rattling, waiting, simpering.

i have grown to carry these hidden:
an heirloom, a heaviness that i cannot place, around.
(Shame prevents from showing), and still,
still, somehow, when fleeting touches of people passing brush the fault,
the marking of my matron,
the same sensation sweeps me whole, taking all but the thing it abandoned the first time,
and i am left, with the ruins of my rage, until i gather them all up and try again.

China is a college freshman taking up psychology in the Philippines. She finds pleasure and a certain calm that can only be found in writing poetry, but she also enjoys writing essays and short stories. She spends her free time practicing the violin and exploring the world through reading literature.