Mama

There was no spark in my eyes before you struck me against a matchbox.
All fizz and smoke,
sparkle and dark,
you lit me up.

You took your thoughts of me between your thumb and forefinger like a needle
and carefully,
warily,
daringly,
wove me together,
thread by thread by thread

You sewed me in.
Sowed me in soil with such impatience as you waited for the rains:
“This child will move mountains with my blood inside her veins”