cut fruit

by jamie kim-worthington

cover photo by abhi velaga

my grandmother’s back is constantly pained from long hours at the convenience store check-out. 

my mother’s hands shake when she brushes the hair from my face,

and my grandfather sleeps on a threadbare sofa in the heart of winter.

i used to be ashamed of my family. i used to throw away their hardships and drink in the better life

they gave me.

we are not the fruit we bear,

we are not the mouths we feed.

we devote ourselves to a collective,

give ourselves up for the hope that something better will come for our children.

i am not my mother (yet

we have the same tremors,

her trauma passed down to me).

my mother cuts fruit for me

and i swallow it whole,

hope the seeds will grow in my stomach

tearing through my chest to sprout something clean and better.

and maybe my tree will bear fruit 

to give back to my mother.