FOR MY MOTHER

on her birthday

in days i remember you bathed me

(as one would their son)

in scalding waters

and with your hand (rings and all - the scratches

from a ruby and your lost diamond

still fresh on my back)

your thick fingers tracing over me

their nails picking off

mane-like hairs from my shoulders

those hands held mine as we treaded

upon broken concrete next to cars

and strangers who you told me

were no one friendly

i remember you scared me so many times

but now i think it was so that

i would truly cherish those who don't

i placed you high in Christ's eyes

with my poems -

i placed you deep down below the strains

of our carmel skin,

our nightshade course hair,

and our deep deep eyes

with my poems as well

in my poems you were never "Mom,"

and to those i love (other than you)

you are "my Mother,"

for i believe that the "my"

is implied

when i speak to you

and "Mother" is far too much a pedestal

for you

you much prefer getting your hands dirty