My mother once told me

of the back country boys that

crowded her front porch,

their hands on bottles and her

momma turning on music so

that people would start dancing.

I tried to imagine opening up

my porch, putting salt on corona

lips at 14. I knew my taste and she

was learning her charm. I kept

my crushes hidden, my experiences

garden variety, failing to bloom under

the heat of her life. I’ve met

those porch boys’ descendants,

tried not to force my fist

into their hollow skin.

I am not my mother’s protector

although I am her sole

confidant. She is neither

of mine