mother ties the lace about her middle finger
beneath her breath
like artisan stitches shipped over battle fronts.
mother tears the hems of her sleeves off
she speaks in tongues
not unlike wildfire gunshots over the flooded river.
she’s thunderstorms and a carving knife
panels of lacquered rosewood.
she tears her hems below the white lash marks on her salt caramel arms.
mother stirs the bowl on the counter once again;
shrimp ceviche as white as my
danish cream skin
glowing mother of pearl in the bayou downpour.