My mother says cherry like cheery, and I love
the bright sparkling sound of it. When she tries
to say warm it comes out worm, the soft O of her lips
not quite able to wriggle out the right vowel.

She does not say W like dubya,
to the consternation of her 8th grade English teacher.
(There ain’t no U in whittled, winsome, or weary.)

She says this heat is oppressive like this: “It’s hotter’n
Satan’s breath mints out here.”

She says my heart is breaking when she says,
“Your dad made eggs this morning and asked
if I wanted any,” and I say, “That’s weird,”
and she says, “Yeah, it was.”

When I ask her thoughts about my career, or God,
or if I’m ready to be a mother, she says
I have no fucking clue, and I’m terrified
I might tell you wrong, but instead
it comes out “I’ll be praying for you.”

And she does.

When she asks me what’s for dinner
and how I slept, over voice-to-text
and in her world-worn accent, she’s saying
I love you, I miss you, please forgive me.