there is a kind of love i've
only known in banana bread
and the condensation in metal
pot lids over tamale pie---

my mother rises love different
than my father--
my father is a hand full of jelly 
beans tossed in a Ziplock bag--
a potato roll with peanut butter
and goldfish crackers-- a bar stool--  
a pound of gummy red lobsters
for breakfast already turning
into ulcers--
my hair tangled in funnel cake--
his lap was for watching fireworks--
my mother is patient enough to
make bread-- 
she rises love on the counter--
the loaf of rye-- these
soft stones of dinner rolls pulled
from the river that runs through her kitchen--
we baked a forest of 
creatures is pretzels-- these
knots in my hair were only part
of the dough 
and she was the one who combed
my hair with a fork 
and a knife and
the metal pot lid over my forehead--
the packet of yeast on the
fridge door was like a crucifix 
above an entrance-- 
when i was sixteen and looking
for something to bite at other
than my own skeleton--
i used to reflect on all the times
my mother never said
the words "i love you"--
my mother is a kind of love
that is always rising on the counter--
a hot bubble on the lid of crock
pot-- the plate set with tamale pie
even when she knew there
was no part of me that wanted
to do with eating--
my mother broke into measuring
cups for me-- braided fish
tails and left the chocolate 
chips out of zucchini bread every
one in awhile just for me--
she has been the architect behind
birthday cake domes and
cookie pies shaped like Pokemon-- 
the flip of a pancake
and my knees pulled apart
like monkey bread-- my mother
painted my nails on a school
night after coming home-- 
arms still printed with 
newspaper headlines--
but she said she would
and she always does--
my mother puts the bread in the oven
and she's not good at cookies
like i am-- she takes
longer on a stone slab--
i caught quick love like my father--
the impatience of raspberry thumb prints
and shot guns full of spritz cookies--
my mother could make my hair into 
a quilt-- a shawl-- 
a chocolate chip scone to
built us a pyramid-- a temple--
a church and a Pokemon gym--
broke herself into 
1/2 cup and 1/2 cup for
her child who took their bones
to mortar and pestle-- to make 
flour-- she keeps a house warm
in a crock pot-- a sink 
of a loved dishes and the coffee
grinds on the counter--
we are either side of an everything
bagel stuffed with vegetable cream cheese--
she waits for me under pot lids--
and we wear umbrellas beneath
the rain from mist--
my mother is an African violet
by the sink watching
another loaf of sourdough
resurrecting on the counter--
i always come back to her
kitchen-- and the pretzels creatures
hide from me under the oven--
a prodigal child-- 
i apologize in sponges
and cookie tins--
she laughs quiet like a crock pot--
a metal lid over our heads--
and tamale pie smeared
on our bare porch feet--
the door knob still tastes like
her banana bread
or a slice of zucchini bread without
chocolate chips--