The Day I Became a Mother

By Nina Filari

My mother buried our kindred 

in a large pot filled with soil, 

a mimicry of Death’s cradle. 

My mother buried a piece of herself 

in a space where my condolences, reassurances, and love now simply grazed her skin. 

Death’s touch lingered. 

Yet within the hollowing marrow, 

a stilled birth was born. 

My mother buried herself in me 

at twenty-one I understood the epidermis of motherhood— and cut it.