My Mother
My mother moves me.
Not with a push,
nor with a shove,
though that isn’t to say
there’s any lack of oomph.
Instead,
she guides me
with a suggestion;
a sense of exploration
a map sewn together with
gentle ‘eee’s and ‘ooo’s
that
fall
and
fill
my palm.
My hand holds sealed wounds
which wonder whether
they would ever have
healed without the stern
words and warmth shared
between me
and my mother.
