Hands and Other Syndromes
As a child I loved to have mother gently rub my hair,
and head;
eyes closed I would allow her soft hands
to carry me away into an’ other mothers’ arms.
That never happened.
I mean the mother thing, and that other mother
turned out to be mainly just a lipstick smeared cloud.
Now I am bald,
and that other mother, whom I never met,
she who gave hand jobs to the marines;
I might have liked her,
in a weird Oedipus Rex sort of way.
I bet her hands were professionally skillful.
The mother who had no motherly impulse
to rub my head, is also bald and dead.
Sometimes I imagine rubbing her skull, until it sings
like a Tibetan singing bowl.
It sings to me now
of faraway mothers and their loving hands;
hands that like magicians’ doves
brush my invisible hair
somewhere in the never-never.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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