Mother of Letters

By Tiana Nobile

For hours my mother hovered over us,

her hand gently guiding mine, her wrist

a helm for my unsteady ship.

I knew how to hold a pencil,

how to grip it between my thumb

and pointer finger, how to lean softly

to avoid a callus. I knew how to form

all my letters perfectly before starting school.

For every birthday, a new notebook

would appear wrapped tightly with a bow.

I would bury my nose inside it

as if the pages would write themselves

with my breath. The pages I'd fill with words

my young tongue was too knotted to express.

Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©2021 by Tiana Nobile, “Mother of Letters” from Cleave (Hub City Press, 2021.) Poem reprinted by permission of the author and the publisher.