Cutting the Umbilical Cord
Poetry by Mari-Carmen Marín
In the mornings, you don’t want
to go to school. Your crying sounds
pierce my heart like a sword—I own
no armor, and you are no radio either,
whose volume I can control the way I could
muffle my own sobs in kindergarten for weeks.
My mother should not know.
You beg me to let you stay home; your stomach
tightens and thunders as in a storm, and I am
suddenly four years old, lying in my Málaga bed,
my pillow under my tummy, telling my aunt
she cannot take me to school because I’m sick.
Last night, I dreamed that I had to go back to college
in Granada and leave you behind. One weekend, you
came to visit, and told me that silence had replaced
the humming of my voice. No more laughing
at Mami’s goofy jokes. We hugged, and you clasped
your arms around my waist like the brackets clasping
my cell phone when driving so that it doesn’t fall
and break. I woke up, thrust myself back to the present.
You are almost twelve, and I am forty-eight. Age
does not matter when darkness opens its monstrous
mouth and threatens to eat you alive. You cannot eat
your breakfast. No food I can prepare will calm
your raging hunger for someone to rescue you
from the jaws of darkness. I cannot be
your rescuer, though. You must face the beast,
tame it on your own until you can
scratch light from underneath and can
see that I am here—I’ll always be.
Now I have to leave for work. My breakfast’s piece
of toast lies on the kitchen counter, its sugar
crusting over the melted butter.
to go to school. Your crying sounds
pierce my heart like a sword—I own
no armor, and you are no radio either,
whose volume I can control the way I could
muffle my own sobs in kindergarten for weeks.
My mother should not know.
You beg me to let you stay home; your stomach
tightens and thunders as in a storm, and I am
suddenly four years old, lying in my Málaga bed,
my pillow under my tummy, telling my aunt
she cannot take me to school because I’m sick.
Last night, I dreamed that I had to go back to college
in Granada and leave you behind. One weekend, you
came to visit, and told me that silence had replaced
the humming of my voice. No more laughing
at Mami’s goofy jokes. We hugged, and you clasped
your arms around my waist like the brackets clasping
my cell phone when driving so that it doesn’t fall
and break. I woke up, thrust myself back to the present.
You are almost twelve, and I am forty-eight. Age
does not matter when darkness opens its monstrous
mouth and threatens to eat you alive. You cannot eat
your breakfast. No food I can prepare will calm
your raging hunger for someone to rescue you
from the jaws of darkness. I cannot be
your rescuer, though. You must face the beast,
tame it on your own until you can
scratch light from underneath and can
see that I am here—I’ll always be.
Now I have to leave for work. My breakfast’s piece
of toast lies on the kitchen counter, its sugar
crusting over the melted butter.
About the writer
Mari-Carmen Marín was born in Málaga, Spain, but moved to Houston, TX, in 2003, where she has found her second home. She is a professor of English at Lone Star College—Tomball, and enjoys dancing, drawing, reading, and writing poetry in her spare time. Writing poetry is her comfy chair in front of a fireplace on a stormy winter day.
Her work has appeared in several places, and her debut poetry book, Swimming, Not Drowning, was published by Legacy Book Press in 2021. Her author website is www.maricarmenmarinauthor.com
Her work has appeared in several places, and her debut poetry book, Swimming, Not Drowning, was published by Legacy Book Press in 2021. Her author website is www.maricarmenmarinauthor.com