Bitter fruit
So you came,
and you left
in your wake
the beginning
of a sharp-browed
wizened,
sleepy-eyed
tiny little
tender thing.
Can you manage
not to crush it,
tell it stories
that won’t hurt,
feed it lies
like puréed fruit-
overripe and bland,
leaving for later
those just turned to sour?
Forgive any flesh
that dares to differ-
a soft mouth gaping,
small and thoughtless fists
clenching, scraping.
Lanugo and cradle cap,
birthing gowns and baptisms,
Cauls and holy marks,
bones stitching and eye teeth.
We are born pleading and lustful
just as our fathers and grandfathers,
scrabbling decades away
towards and for
the blind reassuring breast,
knowing all in all,
the defenseless one
takes precedence.
Fight Like A Mother: A Celebration of Resistance and Resilience.
A Mother’s Day Poetry Collection