as mothers watch children slide into the day. The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plainsmingled by one wind—our breath. Clouds begin sailing in, cargoed with rain loud enough to rouse the flowers into a race for color: the rouged tulips clash with the noble lilies flaunting their petals at the brazen puffs of allium, the mauve tongues of the iris gossip sweet-nothings into the wind, trembling frail petunias. You snap apart its greedy tendrils, cast your hands back into the dirt, pull at its ruthless roots. The Gulf Motel with mermaid lampposts and ship's wheel in the lobby should still be rising out of the sand like a cake decoration. Mornings over coffee, news of the world, you catch the magic act of hummingbirds— appearing, disappearing—the eye tricked into seeing how the garden flowers thrive in shared soil, drink from the same rainfall, governed by one sun, yet grow divided in their beds where they’ve laid for years. The poem contains thirty-five lines, which are separated into three stanzas. bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us, on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—, to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did. In the ruts between bands of color, ragweed poke their dastard heads, dandelions cough their poison seeds, and thistles like daggers draw their spiny leaves and take hold. a pork roast reeking garlic through the lobby. It is a monologue by the mother where she tells her son that life has never been easy for her. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—. rising out of the sand like a cake decoration. with it—winter’s peaceful abandon melts into a memory, and you remember the mire of muck just outside your kitchen window is the garden you’ve struggled and promised to keep. The mother is a short poem in free verse, written mostly in the first person. Many prayers, but one light. Many prayers, but one lightbreathing color into stained glass windows,life into the faces of bronze statues, warmthonto the steps of our museums and park benchesas mothers watch children slide into the day. All because we can't afford to eat out, not even on vacation, only two hours from our home in Miami, but far enough away to be thrilled by whiter sands on the west coast of Florida, where I should still be for the first time watching the sun set instead of rise over the ocean. We head home: through the gloss of rain or weightof snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,always under one sky, our sky. In the tradition of the lyric, this narrator addresses the reader directly and personally to convey her feelings. The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains, mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. My brother should still be thirteen, sneaking, rum in the bathroom, sculpting naked women, from sand. Thank the work of our hands:weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more reportfor the boss on time, stitching another woundor uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,or the last floor on the Freedom Towerjutting into a sky that yields to our resilience. to turn the golf courses back into mangroves, I want to find The Gulf Motel exactly as it was. Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we openfor each other all day, saying: hello / shalom,buon giorno / howdy / namaste / or buenos díasin the language my mother taught me—in every languagespoken into one wind carrying our liveswithout prejudice, as these words break from my lips. To love a country as if you’ve lost one: as if it were you on a plane departing from America forever, clouds closing like curtains on your country, the last scene in which you’re a madman scribbling the names of your favorite flowers, trees, and birds you’d never see again, your address and phone number you’d never use again, the color of your father’s eyes, your mother’s hair, terrified you could forget these. One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,peeking over the Smokies, greeting the facesof the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truthacross the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a storytold by our silent gestures moving behind windows. Sellafield is, then, a highly profitable complex charging other countries for waste disposal while at the same time enjoying a monopoly for a very expensive product, electricity, in Britain. One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyestired from work: some days guessing at the weatherof our lives, some days giving thanks for a lovethat loves you back, sometimes praising a motherwho knew how to give, or forgiving a fatherwho couldn’t give what you wanted. One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story.

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