Your foot touches your mother’s

by Emily Ho

under the table
and you think of the first time you saw her knee
bent into a leg
pimpled in the cold
and you loved it.

You think of the holes
in her stretchy pants
how she wouldn’t let you have hair on your legs
or sit on her lap

how she spread you like a quilt over water
nestled you up into its wet crotch
and after tucking you in
you heard her standing outside your door
you heard her gripping the knob
you heard her holding.