A mother, my mother
Speak now of sun-soaked concrete
of soft skin
speak now of your mother
now of the walls of her womb
of your room
tell me the whiteness isn’t snow
isn’t paper.
Mama, tell me the whiteness is a sun
tell me there’s warmth outside of this room
your womb.
Let the lily pads lick the sky, why not.
a shadow no bulb can bathe and a light no darkness can swallow
where do ravens go in August before the leaves burn
Like baby I reach for sunlit sheets. Like mother I let her.
I took your white pants, the ones that stretch the width of a busy gate— but I took them to dance in the sun as if you could wear my skin.
invite over who you love, and those you wish to forgive.
I drink coffee because I like the taste of being like you
a radio washed up at shore beside a torn t-shirt that once swam with the jellyfish in the quiet blue
I am small / But I am also small. What made you, mama, so big?