Mother’s Day, and I
squint at my schoolwork,
cranberry scone in crumbs
everywhere, everywhere,
between keystrokes, blanketing
the tabletop, and
Mom calls, is it a good time?
So we talk and I amble,
past the pizza spot, by the bleak
shine of a dumpster in rust, I
laugh at her story and
debate with a driver, no you go,
no you go, and my mom,
she is driving, close to
home, freshly gone to see
her mother, love as instinct,
saltwater and mended bone,
like me, she loves a long drive
with company and hates the
long drive alone, so
we talk, she drives, I amble.
She confesses my grandma
placed a ring of green diamonds
in her palm, and we remark
at time, old age, scams and
the very human want for
company, even now, my mom
tells me she’s working on
sitting with people in their
sadness, even now, and
she tells me this is one of
my gifts, green diamonds,
surprise, in my palm.
Past the cemetery, behind the
hospital, waving sheepishly to
people on porches, I wander and
talk to my mom, dissolving
geographies, love as a
reminder, a constant, a
twig, underfoot, bearing a
leaf still in its greening.
michael king 