we whispered missing years fluttered legs over a withering porch bench
she mixed my hair with white fingertips to keep the itchy thoughts away
the walls of my grandparentsβ house held me close, my surrogate womb
we shared more than blood and color as time licked her blonde with heavy waves of fruit and nicotine and I didnβt mind
she sung sticky secrets to me: nights she dreamed on the streets when rent was too high and dads that come like rain: big and loud all at once, then gone
fingertips padded quiet paths along budding curls while βmomβ sat sweet and safe against my tongue
-- c
a poem I wrote about my mom about 7 years ago now. still rings true.