Mother

I will not have you tremble inside
my rolling pin arms. With
these, whose business it is
Not to flatten but groove
the earthlike glade into.

See, you have no idea what I’m talking about.
Who can I give this metaphor?
The fungus gnats or fruit flies found
their way in again, almost had me
take the oregano to the cold.

I could not slap them,
the little specks of beast,
and so they’ll have to hover
broadly in dusty sunlight.
That’s what it’s like to live in a window.

They leave you wishing more,
more than buffer flour
spread atop kitchen tables careening
pizza dough, more than the warmth
pressing gently from the glass.

4 thoughts on “Mother

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