From my mother

I have an earthen plate

hardly more than clay

with some smears of glaze,

a firm and solid fixture of her earthy poverty

whose roots

dug deep in me,

the need to prove that I’m ok

and that the rich aren’t better.

The circle shape of stories

about the family

and who we are

and who we were

and what might be. 

The shape of body

and curly hair

that has forever

made me seem

to be kind. 

The determined jaw

and grinding teeth

showing little jutting bulges

when the muscles bunch,

the signal of my anger

or of my will to live.

The holy knife of justice

cutting good from bad

and a sense of absolute

right and wrong

carved in my flesh

with hands and straps and buckles

but which I temper with

my father’s insouciance.

The love of laughter

and tickling ribs

and the sense of body

and bawdy

inside the family

combined with prudish modesty

and secrecy

and reserve

when speaking to those not in it.

No need to chance

the devil overhearing

our good news.

No need for others

to know of our misfortune.

When I write these lines

I betray

my mother’s fear for safety

but hope to vindicate

her drive

to survive

 and succeed.