the contours of her face
tell me stories she never could,
ringed coffee stains on napkin.
the tides of my questions
crash hard against an unyielding
bastion.
age does not cripple pride,
nor tenacity.
she continues folding her laundry,
i am merely lint on her sock, who notices
the thin green spiders that spread
lazy, long limbs over
the creases in her skin,
and thinks them art.
if i will ever be,
a mama myself,
i think i would not be
as evasive and austere.
but then i would not be,
as sensible as she,
for all good children never know
their mothers heart.
