A Day for all Mothers Except One
Poem on a Withering Matron ..
She wrestles her hair against the window’s wind,
With the scent of vegetables yet glued in her nails.
And the wrinkles of doom;
Bronzed in tint.
She peels the mandarins,
Invaded by childish dreams.
Whilst menopause;
Tik tok.
And tears;
Drip drop.
Motherliness is her chink in the armor.
And yielding; her religious mood.
A matriarchy of sex,
Belated to bloom.
She wrestles her hands against the kitchen things.
Cooks quince with sugar and brines the olives.
Jars of cumin lean on those of honey on those of bay,
Announcing her failure in silence, in ataxia dismay.
When she sits on the edge of the chair,
Her feet hurt.
That’s when the failure of feet
Defeats the burning of bread.
But she loosens her head,
And steals a moment ..
To wrestle her hair against the window’s wind.
✍ — Published by Lisa Precious / Smiley Blue at Dancing Elephant Press. Click here for submission guidelines.
