My mother’s patience 
looks like 

a flower bed, 
practiced fingers 

dipping into the earth 
with each seed 

between forefinger 
and thumb. 

Weeks of coaxing 
and water push 

new plants 
into the world, 

blossoms swaying 
in the breeze. 

But she is unexploded 
ordnance, wires laced

through bone and tissue, 
each second reflected 

in her brown eyes. 
Snide students 

and administrators 
poke and prod 

her volatile shell. 
One day they will find 

the detonator. 

– Lexi Wyckoff