I come from my mother but I have my father’s ears; bigger, longer, droopier
In them I carry the weight of her vulnerability.
The sounds of old doors slamming in her face, racial slurs
“Oriental is a type of rug,” their words echo in my
I can hear her parents slurred arguments, circulating in our
Eardrums. They died before I was born.
I don’t have my mother’s ears but
I have her black eyes, stubby nose, rapid heart.
Her uterus was mine, it’s only inhabitant.
We used to live together
Except for the twin I should have been;
I came with two sacs.
Would they have had my mother’s ears?
I didn’t receive them but you should have.
Despite this, I can still hear the
She wasn’t a
Boy, but she should have been.
We are both ‘should have been’s but she had was forced to keep
Silent. Never heard, just a girl.
“You are my baby girl,” her words always echo in my