would moisturize

my face from jaw inward

the days she had too

much on her hands

when what needed

to come through

did or didn't show.

she still shone, still made

smooth her every rough

edge, heel to brow.

hugged my temples

with slick hands,

as if to say son be mine

as if to say this i give you

as if to say we are people

color of good oak but we

will not burn, we survive

every fire without becoming

ash.
 
By Nate Marshall.