Maybe I deserve it.
Maybe I deserve your indignation,
your words of passion
against the curve of my hip,
the smile on my lips.

Maybe I deserve the constant
ups and downs,
love you call it,
love it is.

Who cares if days are long and dreary
and to whom I say,
"Darling, I am weary."
I was faulted when I was born
and even though every rose has its thorn,
I am more of a stem of grass.
Durable, patient, penitent,
easily cut
but always growing.

Maybe I do deserve it
being born less than her and her.
Maybe a mother's love is only a myth
perpetrated by people
who love nails and crosses.