Brooch

Mothers, wear it proudly, that splotch of spit-up

on your collar, shaped like nothing in particular. Pretend

it’s the most finely crafted brooch, concocted by a wild

artist from New Orleans who works in a dank swamp

beside her dogs and dark lover. All snaky hair

and languid eyes, she is outrageously beautiful, chock

full of voodoo. Did she call to you, voice like a river, then

point with her tick-tock hands till you had to have every

otherworldly piece of hers, no matter what the cost? She’s

terribly dangerous and every day you thank her.