a mother is good poem

i'm in a warm flannel night-gown, white with sparse pink flowers
fabric pilled, long long hair all static
warmth that is welcome and so unlike
the complicated and cloying touches of your adult you,
without the furtive vibrations;
with knubbly rubber remote control buttons,
she worries a furrow into her front tooth
with sunflower seeds cracked and tongued
like they were eaten by one of the several $8 parakeets
who screamed, neurotic and alone, where the cats couldn't reach them;
teaching me there is enough oxygen in my breath
to make a candle fire glow,
she reads books about christian pioneer wives,
her hand echoing in the plastic popcorn bowl