Watermother

My watermother holds my heat for me

ambles through my mind reminding me

Hair won’t comb itself.

Yellow cables radiate sunshine and trigonometry.

I think about all the weeds in the sidewalk cracks

of the neighborhood where I grew up.

One woman planted roses,

A confused cloud asked no one in particular,

What does it mean to rain?

Watermother is tender.

She helps me take off my aluminum slippers,

my slummy makeup,

her mind an ever-growing equation like a cancer.