My Mother

My mother fell
small and wrinkled
on the morning
and the moon slipped
off into some hidden darkness

Coffee steamed us awake
and the cups chattered
in the cupboard

My mother dropped
like an ancient stone
into the blue light
of dawn

The day rolled out
like a newspaper
with tiny important print
we had to read
to know

My mother
heaved away the sky
left clouds loaded
with rain

There would always be enough
for flowers
we could grow

My mother left the kitchen
covered
with cups and papers

We were dizzy with words
We drowned in heavy milk

We lay muffled
like shifting sand
curious with the weight
of dreams
waiting for the delicate
shadow of the moon
to release us back
into buoyant darkness

Formerly a New Yorker, Alice Pero makes her home on the edge of desert wash in Sunland, CA, where she is the 10th Poet Laureate. Her poems have appeared in dozens of magazines and many anthologies, including Coiled Serpent, Wide Awake, and Pratik. Pero has created dialogues with over 25 poets in the US and England.