What Your Mother Made: Glimpses

once you walked into the kitchen, slip night, tap feet, in your jammies,
a stuffed rabbit in your hand. blinking awake. your mother was the moon,
hung sky-wise, billowing in her white gown, eclipsing the world.

she made
peanut butter and jelly. clams casino. oreo cream pie. turkey in butter sauce.
she made
a necklace in college of two people. not mother and daughter. maybe.
she made
your father cry. and explain the difference between like and love
to a pigtailed girl without a stuffed bunny.
she made
letters that said “you’re the apple of my eye.”
you never saw her eat an apple. or hold an apple to her eye.
she made
your library books late. your dinner go uneaten. your tomorrows uncertain.
she made
a new life in a far-away place with far-away people.
she made
you, which is the most difficult make of all.

last night, you walked into the kitchen, slip feet, quiet night, dressed in nothing,
a man who loves you in your hand. blinking awake. you are the moon,
hung sky-wise, brilliant in your own skin, becoming the world.



Image taken with MacBook Air, edited with CameraBag.
Words written at the coffee shop.
Time Taken 8 minutes.
Brain on my biological mother, and this necklace, which she made in college. It’s one of the few things I have of hers.

This entry was published on March 23, 2012 at 12:30 pm and is filed under March, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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