Mi Niña Hermosa

MI NIÑA HERMOSA

by Yael Tobón

someone is writing a poem. she looks like a mother.
you know how a mother looks, 

they have cold fingers and cold toes. they cry under
purple skies, they have pink noses, dry chests

but damp limbs. the mother is writing a poem that
says mi niña hermosa writes better poetry than me,
with hands i made and stiff fingers like mine.

someone is writing a poem, but you already know
who it is. the mother pours the second cup of 

tea of the day. you know how mothers like herbs
that are easy to find and easy to love,

like chamomile or peppermint. the mother enjoys
red tea the last days of the month, but she

doesn’t like to drink it before bed because she
sleep-talks, and says mi niña hermosa wouldn’t

write a poem like this; she would write a poem
pondering the death of young women in our family
and if it is normal to be nauseous all the time.

the mother is a poet just like her daughter, and
neither remember who started first. 

the daughter is on her way back. the mother gets the
biggest box of strawberries at the tianguis so

they can indulge in rustic sugar and recite this poem
the mother is writing—one gift from Mother Earth 

and one from a young woman blooming, again, 
into her daughter’s flesh.