my mother turned 70
and took up canning,
a fun hobby to fill
her retirement time.
she proudly delivered
a box to me—jams and
salsa, and sauce. colored
love trapped in hard
glass with golden tops.
“you should get bags
of rice and beans too,
every week,” she said,
touching my hand.
in case.
in case.
my mother turned 70
and took up canning
because she’s worried
we won’t have enough.
new fuzzy socks for us three,
ordered and delivered within
one day. the cheap kind
leaving fuzz trails through
the house. let’s drink some
water, drape soft blankets
over our legs. we don’t say
worry or the c word, too early
to tell. maybe this time next
week we will know, hold
hands, facing it all, including
all these damn fuzz balls
from these cheap socks.
within chest, flowers climb
worry weavers, petals purple
down drooping, up growing
Valkyrie songs, deep humming
no, deeper
reach another
another
one more
press fingers together
pollen falls, tight places
explodes out, spreads
green shrugs
we know nothing