To my child, on existing
You don’t, of course. Not yet, not ever.
But if you did, I’d tell you things:
things I know and don’t know
that I want to know or knew before.
I’d remember everything I forgot
for you, put together the puzzles
of my past. I’d teach you
all the words I ever learned
and how to tie your shoes. We’d talk
of bloodlines and birthrights,
and you’d have too many questions
for me to answer. But I’d answer them
anyway, because for you
I’d always have time. I’d show you
the world on a string, dangling
and ask you what you’ll do
with all that power. I’d give you
what I had to give and more
even though we both know
it wouldn’t be enough. I’d
build you boats and battlements,
watch you come and go as you please,
I’d deny that any of it hurts, and you
would believe me. You would
beg me, like a child does, and I
would try again and again to be
enough. I’d fail, always, despite myself
like every mother does,
and the rest of your life would be spent
trying to forgive me. I don’t need
to know you to know these truths,
I see them every day. I’m
a daughter. I have a mother, too.
Samantha Imperi is a Ph.D. Poetry student at Ohio University. She received her MFA from the NEOMFA program in 2023. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Great Lakes Review, Allium, Pinch, and Canary, among others. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @simperi08 or visit www.samanthaimperi.net for more information.