Mother’s O C D
Poetry
Childhood pressed upon my tenured brain,
Every time, it played the same,
Obsessions like a familiar dance,
Compulsions engaged in sweet romance,
My disorder like a rumpled blanket,
comfortably hidden in plain sight.
And every night, without duress,
I’d perform each sweet, repetitive refrain,
in synchronic, kaleidoscopic steps,
never changing, all the same,
even in the trance of sleep.
As childhood rested on my weary head,
mother smothered us with love,
and dangled trinkets from my bed,
a miraculous medal,
on a scarlet woolen thread.
Mother’s trinkets,
in colors of the rainbow,
became inordinate superpowers.
And life went on, as it had planned.
As time passed,
I came to see,
While some rely on religion,
I had my mother’s trinkets
and her devotion to her O C D.
© Connie Song 2020. All Rights Reserved.
