By Allison Albino
After a long day at work,
my mother drives
twenty minutes out of her way,
to the mall, parks, takes
the escalator up to Roli Boli
for an order of mozzarella sticks
(which she herself doesn’t eat).
She brings them home to me
for no reason, just because
they are my favorite:
their breaded crunch,
the hot stretch of melted
cheese, how I pull out
from my mouth,
an almost tight rope
as if she is saying –
This is yours,
only for you
who doesn’t have to ask.
My hunger is different:
my hunger is grateful
for a mother
who never seems
disappointed,
who understands my hunger
before my body does
who fills the bowl
before I even realized
it was empty.
Today, I order mozzarella sticks
even though I don’t love them
as much as I did
when I was ten
& when they are in front of me,
steaming, my mother lives
again, my mother dies
again & there’s all the love
I remember & all the love
I didn’t get to live
with her. I’m so flooded
with it, this love,
that I don’t know how
I’m still standing,
I don’t know how
I can’t not be
standing when I have
so much
lifting me up, so much
so high
I could pull down
the moon
& give it, give it without
the thought
of keeping it,
a giant pearl —
there’s only one of them
& I’ve brought it
for you, love, for you.
