By Maria Scala

I remember fevers like this --
nothing to do but
fill journal pages
then hide everything
at the sound of my mother
climbing the creaky stairs
with soup
a Popsicle
whatever I wanted
I never thought
what does it take
to keep humming
as you wash and put away
pot after pot
maybe I caught a hint
of her fury
as I drifted in and out
she pressing down
on the pedal of her Singer
like the gunning of an engine
a machine she refuses to
replace to this day
it's now for neat yellow bibs
for grandchildren
who can do no wrong.