learn to love a mother
who has given you her nose
and a place you could call home
if you just said the word.

it's a house,
with windows that are never kept clean for long
because your mother always,
without fail,
accidentally sprays them with the garden's hose.
she's a mother to the lilies and the weeds,
and you want to gloat in your rooted siblings' faces,
let them know they are playing a losing game
because you're already the favorite.
you're the one who got the nose and the house.
learn to call it a home.

love your mother because she has given you
enough pieces of advice
for you to have put together the puzzle by now.
love her because she has cradled you
when you were a tenth of yourself and
somehow more helpless than you are today.
you've already been taught how to appreciate
even what you can't remember being done for you,
but learn that this is one of those things, too.

your nose is a hook, given to you by your mother
when she told you not to rush down the hallway,
knowing you only ever feel like running
when being asked to go slower,
and the fall you take then
leaves it temporarily purple,
permanently crooked.
learn to love it before she tells you to.