The Octopus

The female octopus 

resolutely 

stands guard, 

not even leaving 

her eggs 

to hunt. 

She eats 

her own arm instead, 

stays, starving, 

to protect her eggs. 

She blows bubbles 

over them,

oxygenating 

the ocean floor. 

Your mother, 

smaller now 

than when you last 

held her, 

gives you pieces 

of herself 

each time 

you see her: 

an eye, 

to see the truth, 

a foot, 

to stand firm, 

a finger, 

to point you 

in the direction 

you must go.

Her hand 

brushes your cheek 

and you remember 

summer nights that 

she whispered 

cool words across 

your back 

as you lay 

restless 

in the dark. 

This is a mother’s love, 

to be always giving, 

even when there is 

nothing more 

to give.