Each evening I watch my mother fight
the meaning of words without pictures.
She groups them like birds in a tree.
When she speaks, they careen in the wind.
She believes I dreamed. I dream. I will dream.
But does not understand the verb "could."
She thinks we were taught to say "I's" in school,
where to place your tongue, how to move our lips.
Her words do not end with consonants.
They tilt upwards, cling to the air like leaves.