Mother

2021

her love for me is in every plate of

butter chicken, sunset hues overflow

and trickle down mounds of steaming pilaf,

the cloying sea of grease settling below.

sometimes we’re just swimming in still motion,

my guts aching for rest, and her counting

for times that need a less painful potion;

that leaves her unburnt. Sometimes she’s drowning;

helpless in the kitchen, and still alone,

searching my stomach for food-stained stillness,

searching my eyes in hopes to find her own.

She’s quick to act; wipes away all the mess,

pours more on my plate. her love is in food,

though often it’s left unswallowed, unchewed.