Of the Many Mothers

Sitting under the new sun,
you arrived, your hair piled high
atop your head. You were
a backlit Nefertiti, oiled
and easy like the afternoon.
You brought me my bicycle,
and somewhere to go.

In Mexico, having navigated me
me over borders, through clothesline
alleys, you wound through shelves
of wheeled pitchers and
platters. You were the momentary
part of you that flashes when
turning corners. I was indecisive,
and you gave me a lockless
key and a blink of a smile.