On Being a Proper Son - Joseph Berce

Mother, do not worry. I will blot these soap   
puddles up for you. Relax. Tonight & all 
the nights before were made for your adobo.  
Look: even the moon looks full from here— 

wanting to be blessed. But there are no tides  
that will sink this kitchen counter because this  
is our territory. Nothing can clog the drain now.  
Cheers to the water heater. Tonight, we are  

 so holy. There is baptism happening by the 
stainless basin. Butter knives confessing their  
sins under the tap. Mother, don’t you want to  
hear about how I mopped the house today   

before sweeping. Now, dust motes are wet 
& congealing in the creases of my soles. Yes, 
the floor is tundra-like every night. You told.  
me. But, hey, if Jesus is done aerobating &  

takes back gravity, at least my shoes are by the
front porch. Mother, I know nothing about this:  
the three words after three apologies. Let’s talk  
about the mattress we used to unroll after using 

the living room for dinner; or my nails reaching  
for mosquito bites; or your hands flattening my  
knuckles every single time. All of this. All of  

then. How I miss seeing the mountain ranges  
peeping at us behind 7/11s. Mother, there is no 
recipe to follow for your adobo. That’s all you.   

Here: let’s thaw this chicken ‘til  

it’s chicken-bodied for tomorrow.     

Or let's walk to the park.  

The dinner’s on me.