When I was a 21, I began to
question my mother’s love,
that silky dust grown and born with me
as much as my placenta, umbilical cord.
She lathered her love on me as
an infant, red haired and dependant.
That was before I could lift my head,
travel by foot, speak with those
unexpected noises that slip past
my toothless gums. Now, that sacred
substance runs low in the mason jar
hidden behind a shoebox.
For years she had scattered it over
my pink bedroom, floral bed set;
smeared it over my blushed cheeks
as she dropped me off at middle school;
speckled it in every day’s bagged lunches,
drives home from school, goodnight kisses.
But, for her daughter with no grad school plans
or full time jobs- when she reaches her hand
into that glass jar of rare love,
fingernails scrape the bottom.