Scatter salt across the table,

Aim for sweet potato fries and

Let the pebbles fly beyond the

Confines of the plate, intention damned.

Her wrist is loose, unaware of any

Mess she makes, she throws the salt like

Birdseed. Come and eat. The meal is

Shared, she pays the bill unquestioned.

Names survive in the veins of her hands:

Foster children, college students,

Inner city youth. The birds don’t

Flock her window. Mother.