I went because that
is what
good mother’s do.

I rarely
if ever
identify as a
“good” mother

but I do
want to read as one
to those other mothers
that decorate your hallways

I dressed more seriously
than normal
I sat on the edge
of your bed
and zipped up my serious

I even called your father
I asked if he was coming
(he was)

I even offered to pick him up

“Is this what love is,
to care about appearances
so aggressively?”
I asked him
(he didn’t respond)

we sit together
in those serious
wooden chairs
“because we love you”

we were surrounded
by serious people
I felt claustrophobic
like foreigners
nesting in over-ripe

we argued about
christmas presents
he talked about movies
“I wish I could take you to one”
(I didn’t respond)

we agree to disagree

you walked on to a
tiny stage
a giant heart
your backdrop
a star
your spotlight

you wore a crooked smile
and shy eyes
like gold plated halos

you opened your mouth
and sang with
accuracy and

it took me by

I looked at you
I saw you

I felt the
overwhelming urge
to apologize
to beg forgiveness
to profess my love
to try again

do we only
appreciate in retrospect?

if there really is
a curse on man


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