Little Mother

I want to know how and when you came to be called
this—for even in the diminutive, it is a burden.

From watching you I learned each day was a race:
fifteen minutes' walk to the market, back at just past

the half hour, on your face the sheen of exertion
but also of pride. Early, rather than late. Fingers flew

over every one of our needs—we were blessed 
with nourishment, buttoned up to our chins, nothing

we could possibly want in addition to what you gave. But
I don't know what secrets you carried, besides me. When I 

look into the camera's eye I tilt my head like you. I smile 
without baring all my teeth. The part in our hair is where 

a brush or a comb moved through this little patch of 
darkness into which we climbed every night for rest.