If my mother is a rose,
then I am a poppy.
She, dignified, resilient,
dependable.
I, carefree, capricious,
more likely to flourish
in an open field
than a tended bed.
We are both red—
though she more vibrant than I—
my bright petals no match for
her vermilion charm that oozes,
even now, through age and infirmity
like blood through gauze.
Still, her thorns have
pricked more than a few.
My stems are tender;
I bruise and wilt
when the world comes
shoving past.

I love
my mother's smooth, olive skin,
her waves of silver hair,
her green thumb that might be
God's own.
She loathes
my manic schedule,
my paper scraps and untidy piles,
my as-often-as-possible bare feet—
trademark traits for years.

We are neither opposites
nor two of a kind,
not best friends, mortal enemies,
inseparable, or estranged.
We are women who share
a gene pool,
a fondness for flowers,
a propensity for pouting,
who have lived through the loss of
a good man,
the abuse of
a bad one,
polar hormonal onslaughts,
the best of times,
the worst of times,
who have now reversed roles,
slapped death in the face
(several times),
and emerged
friends.

From Dancing with My Daughter: Poems of Love, Wisdom & Dreams (Loyola Press)
Used here with the author's permission.