Something about the way a mother
can keep herself from falling. Having
children ruins your life, my mother raised
her glass and toasted after my baby shower.
Something about the way the river turns, its
sunken blue like a stone in place of a doll’s eye.
Something about the myth of a mother’s love.
Love is not an automatic thing, my mother said.
What was it that ground us down to dirt? Something
about my head tilting up in the dark, cracking my
mother’s nose with my chin. My lips are lucky
to find her cheek, still smooth, still scented with leaves. Something about the turned back. Nothing drives
love away like loving too much, my mother said
