Mother
build me bridges,
then burn them before my eyes.

Cradle my insecurities
between the mountain peaks of your knuckles.
Smother them with lead;
lend them weight and gravity.

And then blow them away
like a child blows a dandelion.

Disseminate the seeds
like my school report card
and my sneakers.

Outline my flaws
in thick black sharpie.

And when I need to rest,
let me be.

And when I want to rest,
but instead need to gather my sweat and my salt -
morph my fingers into flower-clenching fists.

Instruct me to walk with poise
(shoulders down, neck straight, forehead calm).

Mother
build me bridges,
then burn them before my eyes.

Never let me forget
my youth, my elementary days,
my religion,
my hometown.

Be here to remind me
that my tongue is flecked with specks of God,

and anything,
even a whisper,
does blow those specks away.

Every syllable, a particle of gold -
easily malleable, and flammable too.
Fated to rest in another's heart.

Mother
help me to know

that knowing is worthless,
that laughter is inevitable,
and that forgiveness is inevitable, too.

And in the end, mother,
let me be,
but be here for me.
Because knowing may be worthless,

but loving
is holy.