Before you think you can put a finger on love,
remember the size of the butter stick
in your mother’s pie.

Think of how all your life
you’ve worked to make her proud,
yet glanced up to see if the world noticed.

Remember your teenage self,
distancing from her nagging madness,
only to now see its wisdom.

Think of the girl at her Catholic confirmation—
these lessons are seeds:
kill them or let them blossom.

Remember the children who forgive our distractedness,
and the mother’s force shaping our destiny,
whose betrayal is more violent than the worst jihad.

Think of those who fix broken cars alone in the rain,
or take their last breath in a crash,
eating from boxes at noon,
clutching phones but hoping for a nod or wave.

Think of the son lost to a cause he barely understands.

Consider those who lost their mother suddenly,
or a friend at 45 who is a mother through a stranger’s womb.

Think of the home you just passed,
with an old woman in bed, longing for company.

And now, think of your mother,
even if you lost her in your crib—
wouldn’t all these emotions finally make sense?

Poetry