Only in my mother's house

In my mother's house

Downy smells better,

sheets over your head

disintegrate into a baby's breath.

Her tasteless food

dresses in Sunday garment,

her storebought horchata is the drink of rulers,

her rancheras become a lullabye

for my problems,

her nipple in my brain,

tells me to write,

because her love is Exxtrra LARGE,

and I speak all languages because she believes I do:

English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Japanese,

mother talk,

baby talk,

husband talk,

counseling for all,

politics, domestic talk,

her story,

Women's Rights,

behavior modification,

herbal medicine,

cooking,

justice,

but most of all,

I can rest because she believes, I've done it ALL.