Tough Mother – Dura Mater

Tough mother – Dura Mater

I pile lard.  Big heaping stacks of fat. Right by the door.

It helps to keep the rain out. 

I slather my body in lard.  Grow lard in my belly, my hips

and thighs.  Fat butts make healthy babies. 

Lipids, fats block the blood brain barrier to keep disease out. 

You plan to get inside my head.

The tough mother, dura mater, stands guard like the mean do.

The mother’s toughness is the paw strike, pop. 

Polar bear mother floats on a block of ice with her babies moving through the arctic like an old explorer.

I pile lard.  Big heaping stacks of fat. Right there on the edge of my brain.  

You plan to get inside my head.

To come inside my brain, to come inside the body, enter
through an ear, a nostril, a tear duct, lips, the naval, or through a small space called thought.

There are hinge moments, moments that connect, like a good solid door to a frame.  Even with hinges, I smell burned peas, acrid like childhood, bitter horse radish and volcanic ash.  And big piles

of greasy fat, cut and stacked, packed tight inside my brain. 

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Try this At Home: An Anthology Chapbook from Spokane’s Diverse Voices Writing Group