Home Remedy
Banished to the front porch
brother, sister and I lay,
dispirited, on quilt pallets,
with knees drawn up
to meet our chins,
spewing forth to the ground
the meager contents
of our aching stomachs.
Mom called it "Summer Complaint."
She took her third arm,
the garden hoe, into the woods.
The roots, scrubbed and boiled,
imparted a brew so bitter
we choked and sputtered
but drank, at her command,
with faces skewed, lips puckered.
Not the worst of Mother’s
home remedies brewed
in her country kitchen,
but close.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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