Miracle at 9

My mother is a miracle—

does all the thinking for me.

I only guess she’s human 

by the drops of blood on the countertop,

the sharp inhale, and clatter of the knife

from dividing my dinner to bite-size pieces.

She seals the cut with her mouth. She is magic

in practical ways. She’s not flashy about it.

She could split open the sky, summon the sun, 

stop the crashing of waves, I’m certain. But instead, 

she peels a tangerine perfectly for me. 

And it’s just as amazing 

when God will split open 

your fruit with her thumbs, hold 

your heartache in her strongbox, and

braid your hair.

Back