When your mother lives in the street
and sleeps on the sidewalk
in front of your brownstone,
you need many laws
to keep you safe.
They all say the same thing,
"Stay away."
But when you invite her inside,
you recognize, indeed,
she is your mother,
the one who brings this breath.
She sits down by the fireplace
where your grief is burning
and you give her something warm to sip
from the bowl in your chest
you've carefully kept
from too much beating.
You notice, indeed,
there are many cracks in it now.
And you remember, it was she
who gave you this bowl,
just as her mother gave it to her.
Then you discover
that only one law is required,
the one that says to every stranger,
"Welcome home."
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