It makes me stretch and change shapes.
My arms can be the swings
he can sit on and play for hours.
I can be the parachute he can use
to slow down his fall when flying,
the rubber boat he climbs up to,
when he feels he’s drowning.
It allows me to see through the darkness.
When he’s sick and scared
and he looks for my eyes,
I make sure they shine with a very bright light.
I become a beacon. Fixed in place and centered,
I don’t leave or stop glowing, because I know
that if I do, he may get lost and I with him.
My super-power pulverizes anger
faster than an atomic bomb,
anger that, like an old faded sweatshirt
that doesn’t fit anymore,
has been stored in one closet of my heart for so long
it has become another part of myself,
like my flesh, my hair, and my bones.
It crushes stress into dust
better than a M4 Sherman tank,
the stress of having to juggle
cooking, cleaning,
teaching, grading papers,
and a burdening desire to be perfect in everything I do
that bends my back and shrinks my lungs till I can’t move.
My sweet boy makes me strong, powerful, invincible.
Mother Love is my armor, my shield, and my sword.