Answering the phone at my high school desk job,
my mom was on the line, whom I hadn’t heard from in a while.
I’d lost interest in the stories she told,
but I never hung up the phone on my mother.
She was still family—
though what part of her was still family?
The part that made me soup when I was ill,
or any meal,
the part that supported me,
was no longer around.
She was still family,
and regardless, I don’t hang up on people.
I listened, not with the bright eyes I once had.
Darker eyes loomed over us,
and they offered no support to anyone.
Enabling—sell your soul for it.
Do you only say, “I love you,”
to hear it echoed with “too”?
As humans, our senses are trained
to reveal sincerity.
And as humans, we know,
“I love you,” per se, is an empty clay vessel.
It can be used to hold something warm for a time,
like freshly baked snickerdoodles.
Thank you for those good times, mom.
Thank you for the pumpkins, the pie,
the roasted seeds.
“Mom,” “look,” yes… thank you for looking.
And now she says,
“Watch who’s following you on the road.”
She thinks she’s going to take them all down.
But the users are the losers, mom.
Love doesn’t hollow you out or use you up like dealers do.
Love carries a warm bowl of soup and bright eyes.
In the light, there is darkness—
wasn’t it always there, mom?
And in the dark, there is light—
this bowl of love, still warm, still carried.
Additional reading: The Sandokai of Sekito Kisen
In the light there is darkness,
but don’t take it as darkness;
In the dark there is light,
but don’t see it as light.
Light and dark oppose one another
like front and back foot in walking.
Each of the myriad things has its merit,
expressed according to function and place.
Image credit: Snickerdoodles (2006), Jim Winstead.
Primitive Joe 
