Somehow the mimosa,
chopped down in all her grace,
has produced an heir. The stump
has delivered a twig: a wee surrogate
big in bravery, tribute to no one
but a dead mother who believed.
This faith business, a mama’s job.
Each berry quickening on a stem—
testament. Past the crabbing, every
hissy fit, the new clothes balled up
and littering the carpet, still
the mother forges on. Even
after death, rattling in the brain
for good or ill, witness or cop,
sympathizer or the never-to-heal
cut of I told you so. But always
the voice. Blood is blood.
What other offer is there?