Mama’s Stitches
Mama’s stitches color me like dark
crayons striking paper; my
beautiful Mama’s stitches find me on
the rainy days I try to hide.
Broken vase upon cold tile; sorry
Mama, Mama—I’ll be better
than the little girl I was last week;
you said I needed fixing.
Stitches, stitches, you say will hold me
together; if not now, then forever.
I’ll understand one day, how papas lie
and kiss their bottles instead of mamas.
Oh, Mama, Mama, black and blue
the kids at school ask why I have
these stitches and I smile and say they’re
glue. I’ll stay together better than
the best of you.