maria’s wide eyes follow the mop on the linoleum floor,

each string of thick rope swaying to the frothy rhythm

     of mama’s shoulder blades, her strong arms pushing

brown water in the pattern of a figure-eight:

     down and back up, swoop right, then left…

she presses her ear to mama’s lungs;

     fish-skin pockets of air behind hollowed-out ribs

expand and contract, expand and contract—

     like the brown paper bag mama pants into

          in the grey cracked hours of morning.

mama shifts maria on her back,

     fixes the sling cutting under her arm.

she leans the mop against a classroom door,

fingers groping for her belt’s jingling keys.

she sighs, breathes in the

     late evening light filtering in through the windows.

she feels maria’s head on her shoulders,

wonders what it feels like to not know pain, or loss, or 

     suffering,

to have palms uncalloused, foreign to the sweat

     of oil-stained kitchens and packed trucks and mop handles,

to not wear a heart every day heavy with loneliness and longing,

     yearning for a homeland no longer home, a country that 

          breathed a language set in bone, that once called you one of

               its kind.

mama straightens her back

and maria presses her ear against it,

     breathes in the paper bag tempo of her lungs.

together as one they watch the mop draw

figure-eight after figure-eight

     down and back up, 

          swoop right, 

               then left, down

                    and back up…