You Are My Spiritual Practice

You close the door in my face
as I stand on the porch
with my basket of gifts
and hear the loud lonely sound of the
bolt clanking into the lock

red leaves fall on the bright green lawn behind me
and white snow falls
and tiny yellow flowers push up through soft brown earth
while I wait and wait and wait and
hope
with my basket of good bread
and money for the vending machines
and new shoes without holes
and fresh white socks

You are my spiritual practice
as you chase me down the front stairs
and out into my car
screaming my faults through the window
as I turn the ignition
You paste yourself on the driver-side door
clutching the roof with two palms
while I drive away
slowly
praying
for you to give up and peel off
unharmed

You are my spiritual practice
as you spy out my sore spots
and poke them with a sharp stick
as you bend my spine to your will
and stretch every tendon taut
until I'm almost snapped in two
and cry out
NO!

You are my spiritual practice
as your blue baby body's aborning
and the kind nurse dabs the blood from my thighs
after
in the darkened room

You are my spiritual practice
when your brown hair full of vaseline and chicken pox
stands stiff in the wind
as you run across Ocean Beach
in the dazzling gray morning
with your siblings chasing after
your wild energy all uncontained

You are my spiritual practice
particularly when
you lock me out
You chase me away
and still

I don't forget you
I do remember me
and all it means
for a mother
to love