Each morning she swept
stars from the wood floor, cursing
as the bright bits scattered,
and barked whenever I’d whine.
Her list of reasons why
I had no right to be unhappy
landed like lashes. At the open door
she bent and snapped
the broom’s bristles—forbade
the stars to return. I didn’t ask how
they got inside our room—the cracks
in the ceiling, I suppose.
She kept the windows shut.
I’m sorry, Mom, I never thought of you,
even once, as a little girl.