Being Mother

I’m picking from the ground
your hair you shed every moment every day

we’re listening to ‘The Lumineers’
and you’re very chill about it—

yeah, I know it’s our every day and your ears
reach your neck just like this

your dog brown mane hugged
all the time and your muzzle soft

moist like a snail
you nod to my hum like you understand

like you take with me the road
more travelled by

like you’re addicted to familiarity—
every day it must be the same hand

at your food bowl pouring kibble
like kidney beans

like your favourite unsweetened cookie
and sometimes you’re a little

nasty about it too as in forever the same
hand— why always the exact same hand?

What are you looking for?