THE TWO-HEADED MOTHER
by Jessica Jirapinya
Her father wouldn’t let her believe
in God. And I remember she told me
he chased her down the stairs through the village’s dead
rice patties and the banana tree leaf that gave her a nasty scar,
just a handful of days after Jesus’ birthday
with a machete.
On that New Year’s Eve, she wished
on gunpowder to be two different people at once.
Her first cry of American dream air
was shared with me. Say this vertigo
was from turbulence, wailing like her newborn baby girl.
I have her Thai eyes
seeing double through the tears
& my dad’s New Jersey cheekbones
cut with a gentle touch.
Half of both but never full.
I’m hungry for it—a reflection I can identify.
Born in one place, raised in another.
I know my mother
wants to go back home, but I am not welcome there.
Mother-tongue a barrier, my mother’s tongue
a scythe. I swallow hard.
A hand raised in mid-air
comes down to brush my hair,
detangling apologizes
from me. I’m sorry
I’m not the daughter you wanted
me to be.
Silence
can be a survival tactic. Violescent skin
means flowers blooming under the surface.
Crack open. Don’t cry.
I run
with half the love my mother gave me, past
the gas station that sells frozen yogurt and the Good-
will that burnt down.
When I looked out on the road through tears & this terrible
ache, I see
two daughters lost
without their mothers
and two mothers slicing
fruit in the kitchen, a gesture to say,
I’m sorry for what I have done to you.
Jessica Jirapinya Schultz is a student at Virginia Commonwealth University studying acting and creative writing, while wishing she could be a full-time muse. She loves going to concerts, taking film photos, and falling in love, then writing about it all the next day. She was born in Thailand and lives in Richmond, Virginia. You can find her on Instagram @jessicajirapinya.