Neuroplasticity ode

​

​

One day I decided to be happy

so I helped my mom move a couch.

I was tall enough to sink into myself,

finally, a sugar cube shape. The new

 

apartment had windows that didn’t look

at walls like an x-ray. I was an athlete

at the time, so the couch stretched

between us like language. I made

 

lemonade which my mom said

she was learning to love or like or make

disappear. I’ve never seen my mom

cry, like a sheath. I love the phrase

 

“means a lot.” I love to hate

the phrase “If I had to say.” Anyway,

my mom cries on the couch with

the plastic on but only for a moment.

 

I love the phrase “she catches herself.”

She cries in a happy way, she says,

like gift wrap. A contradiction

light bounces off of. I love the phrase “you

 

shouldn’t have” but only when it’s said

the way fresh cookies change the air

in a room. My mom breathes a crooked

breath at the window. She tips her finger

 

where the fog gathers on the glass. I can’t

hear her thoughts, which I love. I put something

in the oven. I think it was soft cinnamon pretzels.

But it could have been anything warm. I decided

 

to forgive myself for this forgetting so I sit

on the couch with my lemonade and

my mom’s lemonade which she calls too sweet

like a movie. I love saying “Oh” to mean

 

“you’re too much” which means at least

in part “I love you in this moment.”

I love the little circle of water a cold

glass leaves behind.

​

​

​

​