a short poem about my mother

last night my mother slept over my apartment

we watched a movie and had ice cream in bed

she had never eaten it out of the container before

i never realized just how much of life's simple pleasures she has been denying herself

is this a part of motherhood or womanhood-

at this point, are they synonymous?

i watched her hesitate

spoon hovering over

like she was waiting for permission

to indulge in something solely for herself.

mothers are taught to grow smaller

until sacrifice becomes their native tongue

how many women have been praised

for the neatness of their emptiness?