for my mother

What I Learned From My Mother

I learned from my mother how to love

the moment, to have plenty of paper on hand

in case you have to rush to a birthday party

with cards and gift wrap from the closet, scissors

and pens also. I learned to save books

old enough to hold stories for the next

generation of children, to carve apple slices

from the inside out, to slice through crimson crisp skins

and flick out the pulpy bruises with a knife point.

I learned to invite company even if I didn’t know

the menu, to pass around the moist excess

of the lotion, to dispense tic-tacs up the pew

silently, passing as the peace a minty-fresh eucharist.

I learned that memories we save mean everything,

what anyone will remember is what we write.

I learned to believe I had the power to ease

hot fevered wounds tangibly like a cool cloth angel.

Like a Salvation Army shopper, I learned to create

from familiar suffering a repurposed self, and once

you know how to do this, you can never refuse.

To every child you mothered, you must offer

healing: a blueberry cobbler you baked yourself,

the blessing of your voice, your calm touch.