My Mother

Once when I was a child,
I fell through a vertical tire tunnel,
at the end of Palmer Park,
and my mother rushed to me,
like I was on fire,
as I laid there with my head,
on the ground and a splinter,
in the palm of my hand.

She drove us both home,
and I laid on her bed,
watching Gargoyles,
with tears making trails,
down my cheeks,

as she pulled the splinter from my hand,
with silver tweezers.

That is love.