you held your mom up 
in the crook of your arm
for a long year there
(which you know
and I more begrudgingly admit)
it’s hard to see things up close
for me
it’s hard not to see care
as something indecent 
from which you should avert your eyes
I learned that from my mom 
I guess
somehow the kind thing 
seemed to be 
to let someone suffer in solitude
and not embarrass them with
adjusting their hat fallen over their eye
to be in need and unable to fend for yourself
was a shameful thing
so now
trace the thing back to the origin 
where somehow this harshness
must have meant protection 
it’s a slow work untangling
the weaving
remembering not to call it wicked
and not to hold it sacred
to see you arm in arm

and hold my discomfort

so tenderly 

that it melts and drips 

through my fingers