Because tomorrow is Mother’s Day
I’ll admit I don't talk about her much.
It seems now she exists entirely in
pen. A hesitation signed on the
dotted line of pinpricked promises.
When it’s time to dedicate work that
materialized from places I have never
wandered. When the only deserving name is
Mom. A reference stolen from dragon’s
treasure I was too ignorant to acknowledge,
and the outline of memory shaded in grey,
feathered, fuzzy, a constant blur of sound
too vivacious to be corralled
by the untrained eye
because when she died,
I inherited the hummingbird.
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