Poetry by Jazmine Aluma

Michiel Jelijs CC





PAPER BAG SKY

A mother woke up on a bus headed straight for the ocean. From her window she could see glassy buildings, shiny parking lots, and a bar named after a line from a movie. The route was a straight shot along a street that was also the final destination: Sunset, where a paper bag sky would catch fire and smolder into the night. The ride into the scarlet sky was not smooth. When she was a child, her mother told her if she ever got lost to look for the mothers. They are the helpers. “Why not the fathers? she asked. “I will explain that another day,” said her mother. “Just look for the mothers.” The mother gazed around at the end-of-day bus riders. A stitch in her sweater came undone and her manicure flaked. There wasn’t a mother in sight.

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THIS IS HOW YOU LIVE

Female elephants circle 
each other during labor--
a ring of I got you 
to hold the thunder, like a 
canyon follows a river running.  

Matriarchs 
help the calf rise— 
new feet meet wise earth.
Elders even show the baby 
how to nurse. 

This, they seem to say, 
is how you live.

But the cheetah--
she mothers alone. 
A single force 
against the stealth of midnight. 
Every four days, 

she moves her litter— 
to prevent predators. For eighteen months 
she does this, while her cubs 
become hunters, fierce enough to 
stand up to the sky. 

This, she seems to say, 
         is how you survive.

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Jazmine Aluma (she/her) is a Jewish, Chicanx writer whose work has been published in The Boston Globe, LA YOGA Magazine, and Bust.com. She hosts a podcast called First Words, which explores the messiness of parenting and writing. Jazmine is also a teaching artist for Get Lit–Words Ignite, where she guides young people in the art of spoken word poetry. Jazmine is working on a collection of poetry and essays. www.jazminealuma.com.