I learned to write on my own,
but I learned poetry from my mother.
She will share with me a moment
most people would overlook –
three deer in the backyard
of her parents’ house –
and still insist
she does not know the difference
between my poems
and Emily Dickinson’s.
She does not know the language
but she recognizes the luminosity
of moments;
how our grandmother
was always saying, “look –
a deer in the garden!”
to whomever was in the kitchen,
her grandchildren,her three daughters.
How, as the three of them,
packing up the vacant house,
were all there to see
those three does,
staring back at them
through the kitchen window.
I used to list all the things
I felt she could not talk to me about
in words I could understand –
now, when I call,
I barely say ten words
and she asks if I am crying.
When I tell her why,
I know she is, too.
Some poets do not write.
I carry her heartbeat
like pebbles in children’s pockets.
I marvel at what she takes out
to show me.