by Romina Ramos
You once wrote that I am like a chair
not comfortable but strong and supportive.
If I am so it is because you taught me
to make my own seat instead of waiting
for an invite, it is because you are
the table our family eats at every night.
Your oak limbs have dished out more
difficult decisions than traditional cusine
and your back has prepared us for wars
we were never going to win, and yet
we stand, unabashed, mother and daughter
table and chair, feeding, holding, there.