soft and slash, gentle and burn

(mothers of imperfection and scary beauty)

I never knew the touch of love
her hand was too busy sorting her own dreams
I felt it once, but it was the passing of fingers
against my cheek
to get what she wanted done.

then how do I know it lingers
in the storm-streaked curtains of birdsail above?

because I’ve seen it in other mothers
in the happy faces of their children content

nurture is the breast milk which never stops flowing
the gentle scratching of kind nails on itchy back
the gentle words to catch a man when he falls

Where has most of the nurture then gone?
gone with the holes in our winds of ambition
gone on the shoals where our waters crash ships
Gone to those places
where every woman is a goddess
and ne’er a servant.

Servant?
Servant?
What’s that to motherhood?

It’s everything, fool.
every last drop.