I will be okay.


My mother gifted me 

her mantra, her syrup reprise—

Saccharine coats my fatigue, 

my thoughts and slow steps, 

candied by her mantra. 


I will be okay.


My heels soak its words, 

toes submerge between its honeyed spaces.

Knees, immoble—

I am forced to breathe, 

and I breathe its sweetness. 


I will be okay. 


“Lean into corners,” Ma tells me, 

“and cushion their peppered crevices 

with syrup.”


“Taste the sharpness

bitter at the base of your throat, 

but taste first the syrup, 

my mantra’s sweetness.”


I will be okay. 

I will be okay.