Some mothers are loved for the little things they do,
like tucking heart-shaped napkins into lunches
when they send you to school.

Do I count the time we moved from the Mojave where I was a
desert thing and the world so dry I could lie down to become sand,

and now, plopped down in The Valley
where houses shone and everywhere
was green and I was being registered into
the 8^th grade at Robert Frost Middle School,
and you had come special to sign the papers

and I was so frightened I couldn’t see, so the lady at the desk
suggested I go out for “Nutrition,” which apparently was a break
when the kids grabbed snacks and stared at each other,

but the school was on rough terrain,
so there were stairs and buildings
on different levels unrelated
to the ground. I couldn’t find my way.

I had been on hard ground my whole life, the genuine flat with no
landscaping and no green, and no one cared enough to stare.

but I didn’t have any money
so you fished in your purse,
gave me a dollar.  I said
I don’t have a pocket, so you said
put it in your bra,
but you didn’t even know
I didn’t wear a bra.