because poems are simple, even when life isn't—plus, they don't care what's for dinner
Nudged awake,
in the still-dark morning,
by the sound of her shower’s rainfall—
I’d drag my aqua comforter to the toast-colored carpet
outside Mom’s bathroom. I’d drop the heap
and loll in the folds,
watching mist rise
from the slit of light beneath the door.
Before the tap of words was opened,
I’d ease into the school day,
inhaling her drugstore citrus,
and listening to the downpour
break on her first.
(first published at Mothers Always Write)
After raspberry pancakes
Mom declared
in our olive-green kitchen:
today, I’ll teach you to swing.
She hoisted her own
thick hips
into the black smile
next to me
pumped sky
in her stone washed jeans.
Just gotta lean
into it.
Then below that bar of rust,
her seat suddenly
snapped.
She gripped the old chains—stuck the landing.
Remember our laugh?
Lung-crush of hilarity
while everyone else
held their
breath.
—Bethany Rohde, from Casual: A Little Book of Jeans Poems & Photos, T. S. Poetry Press