Because She Taught Me How to Cope With Things

Tiptoeing

for my mother

when your voice became afraid, and sawed itself

in half, worried that the pain would

seep through its timbre

I would peel off the bandaged layers of my sleep,

keep one ear lifted, up off the pillow, firmly

attuned to sounds from your bed

I needed to hear the steady breathing.

there are attributes the heart uses to

mend itself.  wisdom becomes salve and

strength, an adhesive.

You were always busy, taping self together again.

Many nights, I’d tiptoe

from my bed, towards the shadows, stick

cheek to cold door and listen

for your tears.  But I could tell

you were not really crying.  You were refilling

those things that had drained