There were many mothers in my neighborhood:
Beulah, who tended to my foot on a summer day
when I stepped on a shard of broken Mason jar,
her washrag soaked red
as she tried to stop my blood;
and Marie, whose house was always open to me—
along with her four children
I was simply one more;
and Cora, whose front porch swing stayed in full tilt
as I swung there and dreamed;
and Dora, who seemed my own grandma
those quiet days while we watched TV—
The Edge of Night and The Secret Storm;
and Corinne, who examined my bee stings
and picked yellow jackets from my ears
after I happened upon a nest in her yard.
In my neighborhood were other mothers, too,
including my own,
there to take care of us all.