Mothers Day
I
Her belly swelling, growing
responding without volition
giving, always giving
her life’s substance.
Her breasts, too, swell
flowing with milk
on demand.
Love and pride rise
with the yeast of the child.
Her mind and heart expand.
So much to learn
recognizing a rubella rash
treating scraped knees and bloody noses
why the sky is blue,
the floor colder than the rug
rituals for burying dead turtles
words to ease the pain
when invitations fail to appear
new math, computer spreadsheets
nuances of funky fashion
pantomime communication
when ears are Walkman plugged
turning apron strings into elastic bands.
A mothers mind and heart
may be more crowded than a pregnant belly.
Still the possibility of growth
quickened by her children
and their children
is not lost.
II
She had survived one more
disappointing Mothers day
too much food, unwanted gifts
her children drinking and smoking
speech like knives
stabbing and cutting each other.
But it was the day after Mothers day
which was circled on her calendar.
The day she secretly anticipated all winter long
when it was safe to assume
all danger of frost was past
and she could move her infants
out of their protected nursery.
Since first implanting the tiny seeds
in the fertile growing medium
she had nurtured them
lovingly controlling their environment.
Wearing her prettiest flowered dress
she carried the flat of tomato seedlings
to the garden. Her trowel,
bent and scratched scooped out holes.
She gave each plant a drink
of nourishing transplant solution
dressed it in a pleated white bonnet
for protection from the sun.
Last years crop had failed
to produce the bounteous harvest
she expected as a fitting reward
for months of devotion
but her special, private Mothers day
had come again
bringing another chance for offspring
who might develop
in a way that would make her proud
to be their mother.
*I'm not saying it's good or bad art. Just that this was some of my (dead) mom's art.
Labels: Other People's Poetry
