WE MAKE OUR OWN ORIGIN STORIES WHEN OUR MOTHERS HAVE SECRETS

                    by Aria Curtis 

​My mother made me in a mirror / on a white sheet surrounded / by wishing women /

thumbing pages / turning beads like seeds / with their fingers / she carved me out /

in reflection with my grandmother’s namaz stone / the same prism of nose / the linger

of pink between teeth / diameter of muscle / in the glass echo / I was born

from the slender/ canal of her throat / all milk and placenta metal / sublingual /

everything belonged to us / I could say / this is her sadness here / under her arm /

this is my sadness here/ under her arm / I knew all the words / to all / her songs / how

do I know / what I have already forgotten /how do I know / all the things I lost / before

I was able to know / what I received / the shrill blood loss of hemorrhage / my tongue /

which was always hers / her hair / cut and pious / for what is motherhood /

if not some sort of martyrdom / and what is to be born / if not a most devout wanting

a cloud of smoke / of wild rue on fire / the seeds were laughing / as she wished

she circled the pan / around my head / pulled the ghost / across my face / I wished /

to be able to sing / the words I heard / make them identical / twin dimples in the back /

say / ghor ghor nakon / azizam / farda miri khooneh





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photo by Rick Curtis

Aria Curtis is an Iranian-American writer from Atlanta. She holds an MFA from Arizona State University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Southeast Review, The Offing, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Yemassee, and elsewhere. She is currently at work on her first novel.