My mother

(for Mom) 

My mother works into the night  

and rises with the sun. 

Her keyboard is a ghost 

that haunts the house 

click-clacking through the halls. 

My mother is worn out, 

stretched thin. 

Like spider webs, 

her hair frays, 

near tired eyes, 

and tired face. 

My mother does not cook. 

She cooks. 

She kneads memories into dough, 

and chops colors into chicken. 

My mother has an accent when she’s angry. 

Geri! 

she snaps, 

and I have no choice but to relent 

to the sharp edge of her sounds. 

My mother has a special care 

when she tucks me in 

at night. 

Her gaze becomes an outline, 

a soft view of what’s inside. 

She caresses my covers, 

kisses my cheek, 

and leaves the door open just right. 

It is impossible to talk about my mother, 

without talking about me. 

We mirror each other's faces 

and the generations behind. 

Maybe we are simply the same body

at different points in time. 

Mostly, I admire 

the way she stands up straight. 

The way she teases my dad, 

the way she dances through the kitchen 

and gets excited over the smallest things. 

My mother hugs me 

no matter what. 

In her arms 

I know 

I am loved.