No One Publishes Poems About Mothers

No One Publishes Poems About Mothers
—advice from a writer friend

Every morning, when I make
coffee, I see

my mom hunched over
the sink

that last time, washing her face
while it was still

her face, and not
some image

her sons hold in small, breakable
cups on the back

shelves of their minds. I see
her making

a fresh start and her own
coffee, holding

her own cup with both hands
in the early

half-light and steam of dogged

a moment and morning
that lasted

just long enough for a good
smoke and for

the hummingbirds to visit
their feeder

before everything was swallowed
in light.


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