blind love

mama brings home the baby,
doesn’t sing any songs to it.
instead she is a lullaby of sighs,
eyes tinged with water
clear like diamonds.
she says the baby’s distorted,
leaves it on tables that
resemble surgery boards.
throws away organic milk and
picks up prescriptions instead,
gives away lotions for topical creams.
the baby smells like pain,
not honey-crackers and broth,
and never cries at night.
when people call to ask how it is,
mama tells them about
its supple skin,
tells them that flowers are blooming
on every crevice of its body.
she tells them that
the flowers are beautiful,
even if they are weeds.

Olivia Hu is fifteen years old, a lover of cats, and weaves words on her loom. She is forthcoming in Brouhaha Magazine and Cyberriot, and recently won a national Canadian writing competition in the prose category. She also writes for Her Culture’s magazine and blog. You can find her wandering the café-scented streets of downtown dreamy-eyed or at

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