My mother’s is finding inheritance of beauty,
because I don’t want to be
and neither does she.
My mother’s legacy is not another history of violence,
because I am not
a man’s capital,
I am my birthright.
My mother’s legacy is not another dowry
or a hand-me-down.
Another manifesto of how women should behave.
For then, a legacy becomes a curse,
and I am not a curse.
My mother’s legacy is a whiplash.
A flamethrower. A game changer.
It can scream like
an assembly of pyres;
all the pyres ever jumped into
without questioning one-sided loyalty.
My mother’s legacy is a
whisper inside banned libraries,
undoing books bound so tight
their stories can’t breathe.
A legacy whose hands have held knife fights before they even dreamed of holding a pen.
My mother’s legacy to the world
is more than a pretty face.
More than a bedroom wall.
More than a marriage certificate.
More than anything you could imagine.
My mother’s legacy to the world is her anger.
A daughter born raging.
A daughter who protects her name.
A daughter who cannot die.
My mother’s legacy-
is her daughter’s thoughts