2.01.2010

THC

My mother had stopped by
after her grocery shopping
to borrow a few books.
The burdens of the tethered housewife
put her in a funk sometimes;
we both agreed that novels
might offer some escape.
They were waiting on my kitchen table
when she came reeling through the door.
A firm hug, my hand through her hair, the
cold still on her scarf stinging my face.
We made small talk as only blood can.

"No! Don't eat those," I warned
as she shoved a chunk of brownie
into her mouth. The fresh batch
my roommate had made the night before
laid on the stove so deceivingly innocent.
"They're doctored. Wait. You might like them."

She sliced a strip off with a butter knife from the counter
and continued to partake of her other form of escape.

"These are good. Can't even taste it.
Tell him to come cook at my house sometime."

I laughed. There was a time I wouldn't have.

A conventional childbirth was out of the question.
My mother still has the C-section scar.
My head was too big when I entered the world
but it's shrunk a bit since then.
Don't let my hat size fool you.


Currently reading:
"The Battle for Spain" by Antony Beevor.

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