If I were a better mom,
I would build you wings
to fly away. But I am not
an engineer. I’ve never
been that great with words,
but I can use a pen. When
you need it I will draw your
name upon a page, hold
back your golden hair
as you get sick into my
leather shoe.

And I will let you wear my
cashmere sweater, paint
your lips with sticky sheen
and stay out late to “study
calc.” I won’t even ask about
your boyfriend, if you have
one, but I really hope you’d
tell me first.

And if you would only stay
this small then I could put
you in my jacket pocket,
next to clinking car keys,
my lucky Krone and a
tissue for your runny nose.
I will drive you in my
Volvo down the street that
never ends, always avoiding
potholes, since flat tires cost
more money than I’d ever
like to share.

And maybe one day you’ll
bite a hole right through the
pocket’s bottom, slip without
a whisper to the floor. And I
can’t find another tissue, so
I’ll put a Band-Aid on instead
and watch you go.