Her face becomes her - holds her soul in tight

embrace; her voice, a spinning cinnamon

whirling dervish winter wind, bathed in light.

Cell phones, sunlight - all the carcinogens

That left my mother in the hospital

when I was thirteen, and selfish, and scared.

They carved the broken pieces out, but all

doctors said she had to rest, to prepare

for the worst, that she was not stable yet and

my family was all in the waiting room,

and i was alone at home, on the swings and

in my neighborhood playground, watching bloom

-ing flowers bloom and blossom and unfurl;

asleep in bed, my mother was my world.