Daughter

By Tararith Kho

Poverty ripped us from the home we had together:

It blew me far away,

And tore the ties between mother and daughter.

There is too much to regret.

I am a housemaid in Malaysia:

I am servant. Once I was a mother.

Mine is a load that will not be lightened.

I struggle to work, daughter. I miss you.

The day they took you I was twice a widow.

All work is suffering,

Condensed of sweat, blood, and sobs.

You see I am tricked, as an animal;

I had no choice. Your mother is poor.

You see that I must use this time. You see I had to find a way.

You see that we all must run to find a job—

I ran from you.

I left you when you still knew nothing.

I do not think that I can imagine your pain—

I do not think you know my face.

Daughter, sometimes I am exhausted.

I would like to know every ant that crawls close to you.

I would like to kill them.

My tears cut into my heart.

And the wind scatters my pity like pollen.

The days bear my prayers to the gods.

Young shoot, I would take such care.

Not a mote of dust could alight on you,

No bad smell would ever approach your nostrils.

I am too far from you now to see the dust.

When the other servants curse me,

They say, “You Khmer animal.”

Daughter, you and I were born Khmer.

We were told to be proud of this nation.

Your father died fighting for it—

The Thai bullet left him lingering weeks.

And where on earth is there room for widows?

I am a housemaid in Malaysia.

I suffer immensely, beyond measure.

The first burden is missing you,

Worse than stories, worse than any fiction.

I am with you walking, working.

I tried every word I know to quiet my despair.

There are none. I am quiet now.

I cannot look at other daughters.

My heart beats against my chest,

And I cannot make the days stop.

I would like to be relieved of them.

I would like for this heart to be freed.

That day will not come, and the pounding grows.

I wake when it is dark to cry,

I wake crying from dreams in which you are with me.

There are ways that the body suffers.

This is like fire touching the flesh,

Like the marks, indelible, it leaves in passing.

 - Trans. Aisha Down