Sometimes, I forget
how I’m built, unable to listen
to the ticks
the slow mechanism
shifting away from
sentimentalism
Sometimes, I search
for my mother, now laying in bed
under the bright lights,
her slow mechanism
frightening my nightmares
“This is reality,”
she said.
Sometimes, I don’t care
of the world, but I see her
back bended
a U not built for elasticity,
and underneath
eyes locked, hands firm
working, sewing
fabrics of years
together
But every time, she’s all I need
she’s all I dream, and each time I cry
for her, only her words
of comfort
of acceptance
of everything the seas, children, cities, and lovers
cannot give me
is all I need.
