My heart has become a deep bowl.
A pot like the one my mom uses
to make popcorn on the stove.
She stands like a heron,
all thin legs and poise.
Shakes the kernels as she tells me
the ways my father was always too big for her.
And for the first time I see her
as she is now;
a woman with an ex-husband,
fifty-eight, standing in the kitchen of her hollow house.
Tracing her life’s trajectory with a thin red pen.
I can hold it now.
I have carved out large parts of me;
basins in which to pour
moments like this,
when I hear that the people who taught me love
had an irredeemable fault line.
The certainty of a rupture
leaving them in silence and separate homes.
When she’s done,
I am heavier than before
but still standing.
The popcorn is slightly burnt,