This one is for my mother
My only gift that maybe and probably
On some levels just a re-gift
Of the gift she has already given me
Over the years and through the many
Pages in the many books she has read to me
The books that she pulled from her red-wooden shelves
And sat on her lap on top of peach printed skirts
And underneath her pale pink colored nails
Words that grew legs in my mother’s mouth
And were so well fed that they grew hands too
Hands, that stretched out so far they reached my ears
And tapped on my ear drums moors code
Tales of other sleepy children who just
Wanted to stay up, “please just one more chapter longer”
“Please, I’m not even really tired”
Tales that when looking back I hate to think
I never realized
How these tales reminded me of her
From every little detail minute as the
Punctuations that penetrated the spaces
between my mother’s long winded breath
One story I remember in particular.
The crescent moon that cradled the cat.
The cat that escaped from her farm in search of more milk
Than the farmer was feeding it
That cat who ran to the sky thinking the Milky Way—was just that.
Only to realize the love of the famer
Tasted better than how stars
Felt on patted and pawed feet
So the moon held the cat and slowly dipped its semi- circle
Cavernous cradle down to the earth again
Into the hands of the farmer
My farmer, my mother earth
With one undone overall strap hanging below her shoulder
That in my childhood I would tip-top to thumb the edges of
That metal that spooned the silver button hook.
The shiny metal like a bookmark
That I hope will never find its page
In a book I hope my mother will read forever.