A Mother’s Restitution

In sticky restaurants
with glossed, wooden seats,
I learned to write poetry
by watching my mother
put on cherry red lip stick
and write down words fast
as they came to her like
demons
maybe angels
flying overhead.

She’d quick grab a pen,
the closest napkin,
her lips moved in small gasps
as she mouthed the words she wrote.

In sticky restaurants
I learned poetry
from a plastered smile
that didn’t reach her blue eyes.
I learned
How it calmed the demons
Or scared away the angels.
I saw how it saved
and killed
the good in her
and made her who I know
and made me who I am.