She drove me to auditions, to high school,
to play practice; she drove me into fights
that lasted as long as the years it takes
to get into the college she prepared me for.
She is beautiful still with short, wild hair
that exists like bamboo, a thick survivor
on the curb of her moods, our moods
mixed together like butter and salt
We're zipped into each other; both of us
studying in college like concentrated chefs,
both of us worrying about the inside
and what it looks like from the outside.
With infected blood, she still kisses me
goodnight, still drives me home from school,
gives me what I need: new glasses,
a can opener. She is the hero of mothers.