i thought my mama was god
because the wind blew through the house
when she told us to clean, she opened
windows and autumn air came through,
cool relief. we moved. we felt.
because i never saw her sit in the recliner.
she made smells in the kitchen come up
like smoke, and i was hungry and it was good.
because the songs she sang made the house
vibrate, not moans, but something soft
and terrible, with power and resonance
like her hair undone, or her lipstick cracking
like the powder of her make-up, like the
look in the mirror and the devastating
confidence. because there was no night
for her, i knew she commanded that.
there was no sleep. no tired. no forgotten.
that perfection like a tree's growth, to each
thing, it’s own time. to perfect destiny
and pain, to rain and mud and relentless
pursuit. because at times sorrow was tumbling
down the road at fifty miles an hour like a
drunk driver wandering to his home in the abyss
of helplessness. because the white flowers
of magnolia are her favorites and there never
was a tired with weight or significance to
make her back sag in the morning. because
we played and laughed and found in each other
eyes and pointed stars of together. because
the trials were opportunities and her conviction
was not of the body, but spirit, steam and
heavy foot on a gas pedal. i swore she made
the sun rise and commanded every machine ,
every season, to our benefit, to the extreme,
for the love of. because she managed the world.
our world. stuttering mornings and heavy nights.
under sun, under moon. for the love of, for the love of.
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