My mother squints
at the morning sun
that begs her to see.
She and I together,
one heart dissatisfied.
One smile, one penmanship,
one thumb guiding one blade
under the appleskin. Two
water beads on the glass, one
ring on the table. I scream
at her back, my hands tied, feeling
the dimension of her belief
in me like a limb
on my own animal.
Stories above the interstate,
a swell of migrating starlings
peels out in halves.
She cannot hold
the starling
but I will.
I will. She squints
and squints, brow
furrowed and temples
pounding with focus.
The mind finally
lights on the hills.