Mother rinsed dishes in a mix 
of hot water and bleach 
and with the same noxious brew, 
swabbed door knobs and faucets. 
Not even latches on gates escaped 
her everyday war on disease. 
That was before we knew 
what plague lay in wait 
to smite us and lock us in place.
Wherever you are, beyond the urn
in my closet, Mother, hear me concede: 
you were right when you told me 
a girl must be careful, 
and there’s no such thing as too clean.

Avocado, she wanted,
giving way at the end,
end yet un-dreamt 
at the bend of mid-winter.
Avocado, she wanted 
that odd creamy fruit,
fruit unheard of by girls 
from rhubarb and peaches
in small-town Oklahoma.

That far-away summer 
when she’d failed to stop weeping
you’ll stop weeping, said the doctor
from big-town Oklahoma
with a thousand miles between
you and your mama.

She drove west on 66 
until its end at the ocean, 
ocean where her new world unfurled 
under trees bearing fruit,
fruit like a fist
or a mottled green womb. 
One taste, avocado, was just 
what she wanted. Good Lord, 
she knew she was home.