a ghazal
Mom banged her hairbrush down in a reprimand of love.
“What an awful question! You don’t understand love.
“Of course Dad loves you. How can you question that?
He doesn’t have to blare it out, like a brass band of love.
“You aren’t a princess to be coddled on a lap or praised
without good reason. That’s a never-never land of love.
“Your father works hard, with a great deal on his mind.
Now don’t go causing trouble, making a demand of love.
“Yes, I know he yells and sends you to your room a lot.
But be glad he never hits you with the backhand of love.
“Once, banished to your room, you drew a picture poem
for him. I watched him beam at you with unplanned love.
“He said he’s proud of you. I’ve heard him tell you twice.”
She brushed my hair, hard. “Barb, that’s a brand of love.”