Mother,
As your current pulls on my high-tide mind,
And my potted pothos rides your breeze;
The first joyful time in many weeks
Mother,
With your knuckles cold on my burning cheeks
A feverish dream of baths and blankets
The soup of ancient wisdom
(with crackers)
Mother,
Dressed up for summer, howling my greatness
To your other million children
As you hang up lines of linens
Mother,
Forgive my sins with your signature storm
Warm with a rage that rattles the shingles,
Strip my house of its stable and form
(rain on the sheets–
they’ll dry tomorrow)
-Judy Russ