Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
i sit in the memory of my mother.
unspoken mornings outline the
curvature of her lips as she lets
escape, “good morning,” at the ripe hour
of two in the afternoon, mind wadded up
with breaking news in the language of overt
hate, and i take a moment to sit in
the mystery of her cynicism.
i gamble on chewing through
conversation that always goes
nowhere and everywhere she despises
when i cross my tongue, but i
pause. for twelve year old me
typical thursday afternoon, scratching
through mixed fraction math problems,
household ambiance brewing
with fighting words dimmed by
my bedroom door
for sixteen year old me
throat raw, explosive in tune
with brother, eighteen but still reigned
in by mother tight. flickering snapshots of
dinner table peace, interjected by father, yet too
quiet to even scribble in a landmark in
our country named
resentment. harbored by nineteen year old me
for every spitting phrase that
i cradled to weigh any sparse sweetness
acting as the liminal space goddess
built for the reunification of our lawless
land. though nowadays, more often mother herself
prefaces before every landmine,
outlines the cracks so we don’t
fall through. yet i still slip further,
guiltful gravity circling me farther and i wonder
if mother has died. i wonder
if she has gone into hiding instead,
or if all along, she has died
twice. the first when her mornings became mournings
the second when there was no one left to
greet them with
i sit in the memory of my mother, as she bites her lip instead of mine.
Anne Liu is an undergraduate student at Brandeis University studying health, music, and computer science. She writes as a hobby and it's one of her favorite modes of escape from the hectic world. When she's not writing, you'll probably find her practicing violin in the music hall.