Atlas In An Apron 

Sometimes I wonder who my mother is without

the worry lines on her forehead. If she didn’t

bite her nails to the point of permanent

scars. Who is my mother if not 

a skipped breakfast, skipped lunch. The one

who comes home saying, I have 

not eaten all day. Who attacks 

the box of chocolates from the snack

 

cabinet. A mouthful of need 

for peace, a sweet morsel to fill the gaps 

between Zoom calls. A breath before 

the cacophony

resumes. What is her being, if not 

the house itself, footsteps in sync with 

slammed kitchen drawers. The inevitable crash of

pans and burned scones, the soup at the rumbling

 

stove. She exclaims when it quiets at last. My mother is

the sigh that muffles the scream and whispers carry on.

A self-humoring refrain of where did I put my

glasses. She is a language, gliding past syllables, stumbling

through consonants in a feat of charades. I have never met

another immigrant who speaks

Bulgaro-Spanglish. Her accent another stone 

she must carry, polished in her mouth by the roll

of her tongue but never losing its weight.

Who would Atlas be without 

the world on his shoulders?

If he shrugged off his staggering 

burden, would we even recognize 

his face?