Nuclear Deal
A hug from a woman who's not my Mama
but has raised me nonetheless is
warmer than our run-down apartment in St. Louis.
Streetlights would allow shadows to form in my head.
They go away when I see my nephew's eyes,
blue like my step-sister's.
He hasher blonder hair
and my stepmother's curls.
I wrap their love around me like a blanket.
This poem is about:
My family