If I ever were to bake a cake
it would be for you,
and I’d color in the icing
like spreading sunblock on your face.
I like to get you while you sleep—
the best is in a car—
so I can butter every toe
and beneath your pillow feet.
Underneath your feet because
at the beach you will crawl
then turn back up and hook a foot
in the elbow of your jaw.
Sometimes you fart, snore or sigh—
show me you approve
of the cold sunscreen I rub
onto your miniature thigh.
I get the grace to growing old
each time a rim of white
forms a stencil from your ear
and records your neck’s fat rolls.
Daddy speaks from the front seat,
bids to leave you still.
Oh, but your fresh bread hands,
and you sleep and I don’t hear.
This poem is from my forthcoming book mid-life, which I offer today to all the incredible moms out there. Happy Mother’s Day!