I fill my mother with air from the gas station

pump, four quarters strong.

I wash her back in gasoline and oil, curl

her hair over bolts with a wrench

the way she wore an old shower cap tucked

over pink rollers and a bathrobe to school

when a boy tried to kiss me on the playground.

She made sure to walk me to the front steps,

cold cream and all, with the bell ringing

and that boy waiting just to say,

my daughter will look like me when she’s old.

I stand at the sink and rouge, pluck strays that

beg at my chin, color the greys

that have tinseled and still she says,

propped in the backseat, keep living, girl.

There is still room in the tank.