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