Yes, I want to praise my mother.
She tells me to eat, eat, or I’ll go thin.
For years, she broke eggs and stirred the pot
at the school district. Someone’s child would
gift her candy, gift her birthday cards, and small notes of
gratitude for what she cooks. She fed them like
they were her little one's fingers pointing, I want that.
She learned enough English to ask, how are you today?
Her children-away-from-work. They never asked, where are you from?
When I was a boy eating at school, the lunch lady made me think of
my Mother. My Mother, who comes home and feeds the dog
when I’m grown and gone. She’ll gladly bring pozole to the potluck.
She’ll turn the stove on to heat the holiday leftovers.
Better yet, she’ll ask me to take the leftovers out of the fridge.
I’ll eat or I’ll starve. Don’t forget someone picked the produce,
trucked into Texas through Mexico. Yes, it could be a father,
a mother, or your loved ones. At the grocery, every winter
my mother buys limes by the dozen. Out of season,
my mother’s exacting hands roll the skin ripe. She slices
them into wedges. There’s a pot that is tall and simmering.
Ladling care into waiting bowls, have you ever squeezed
fresh lime into your chicken soup with such loving hands?
I want to praise her song. She taught me to season myself
over years. Even when the world tastes ugly, those children
praise the food service worker, who speaks minimal English
and feeds you gladly. Rain or shine. Bless me because I’m coming
to your diner, your gas station taqueria, your hole-in-the-wall,
your school cafeteria because bless me, I’m rich with tired love.
And I want to smile at your Mother, your Father, your Beloveds
who smile back and say, eat, eat, don’t forget where you come
from. You lived on roots and vines to praise the chef,
the person behind the stove, baking the perfect bite with soul.