My Mother Believes in Me
My mother believes in me so the odds bow more to my favor. She guards a heart she carries through life like a basket filling with flowers she doesn’t know are hers.
Love also believes in me. She holds the opening key to my houses and turns in at my door and sits on my bed and waits for my fear to grow tired. If I touched her like an heirloom glass… or as I lift bread from the oven… or as rain covers the ocean… but I have cursed my hands with the ten doubts of the Christians and often they are coarse as sand or still as basalt. Though when she sees me, she smiles.
My friends, how they believe in me! I accumulate a debt on the holidays and in living rooms over coffee I will never be able to pay. They trust an alchemy of hope and sadness will deliver gold.
Porto Alegre, Brasil, 1991
My Mother Believes in Me - Mark Schultz
photo credit: poeticform @ deviantart.com