i hate ice cream.
but when i was a child, ice cream was my mother's
band-aid
apology
celebration
reward
treat
synonymous with a cool rough hand on my forehead
far away now, in brown-dusted
cactus-studded hot hills
in baking cobblestone streets
between tall crooked stone buildings
i'm reaching for her hand
it melts sticky under my fingernails
and the taste is wrong in my mouth.