My Mother is Massaging my Shoulder

My mother is massaging my shoulder
the right one, its knotted sinews.

Overhead a disembodied voice announces
departures, arrivals, boarding calls,
but I don't listen.

It doesn't matter that I am twenty years old.
It doesn't matter that I have traveled across oceans.
None of it.

In this moment, I am listening to my mother
softly humming Church hymns beneath her breath
her fingers softly kneading the muscles beneath my skin
tension under her persuasion.

Once, I came home
my mother was crying in a corner
crumpled under invisible weight.

I put my backpack by the stairs,
pretending I didn't see.
Her sobs chased me
echoing guilty footsteps.

Another time, I was leaving
my mother was singing in the shower
voice mingling with steam

I put my back to the sound
talking aloud
her tones chased me
filling in the pauses of
my breath

The carpet beneath my feet is making
cross hatching on my skin
lines into skin into muscle

My mother is massaging my shoulder.
Overhead a disembodied voice announces
departures, arrivals, and boarding calls.
I don't listen