Victor got a real sense of power from making his own raisins. He’d buy pounds and pounds of grapes and leave them to dry on the kitchen table. Theresa didn’t want to hear about her ex-husband’s cancer. Not on Father’s Day. She took a train all night to have breakfast with her cousin. All Sunday she rode
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My child is my mother.
There is a perpetual tug of war
between the child in my mother
and the mother in my child.
My spouse is not father to my child.
The man who is lover to his mother—
he too is childless, having been
son to his grandfather, but not brother
to his mother, or son.
The self-evidence of terms
designating family ties
masks the entanglements.
Is it folklore, the assumption
that a man will choose a lover
over his children
and that a mother her children
over her lover?
In this, the man and I,
we are equivalent.
We each have our records.
Mónica de la Torre
Born and raised in Mexico City, Mónica de la Torre is the author of the poetry collections Public Domain (Roof Books, 2008), Talk Shows (Switchback Books, 2007), and The Happy End/All Welcome, forthcoming from Ugly Duckling Presse in 2016.