My mother, who is not the squeamish kind,
does not wear lipstick, doesn’t twist her hair,
wears mother bras and mother underwear;
and often in her garden you will find
her planted, when her arm begins to wind,
and suddenly she pitches out from there –
a snail. It hits the pavement, cracks, her stare
is steely in the starlit yard that’s vined
and weedless. Night lies thick against the squash
she’s saved. She walks inside, begins to wash
the soil from her hands with lemon soap.
Its bright scent drifts a moment, and I hope
that after I am kissed and tucked in bed,
she’ll go outside—make sure that it’s dead.

This poem first appeared in Lipstick Party Magazine (November, 2017).
Used here with permission.