My Mother’s ears

once held the key to all I ever needed.

They were my bit bit, my blankie, my

I can sleep now,

it is well with my world.

I felt them yesterday, 

still soft between the print of my thumb and fore finger.

They hang flat now, long and creased 

like that in between chicken wing skin

with no tapioca gristle to play with

and I, am grown now

way too big for your fragile lap.

If I could, I would express from my breasts

all my good fats into an umbilical syringe

so the Botox experts could insert it into all the right places

between your sagging flesh on bone

and stop,

only when your lobes are filled enough

and fat enough

for you to feel

you can sleep now

it is well with the world.