Evelyn Augusto Poet Free verse

Mother

I miss you-- the way I  miss 
the comfort of my own mother's 
embrace.  So soothing.  So divinely
human.

Once, I pressed my cheek against 
her bosom.  I remember,  the relief 
of being, momentarily,
             saved.  

And even as I write this--
and even as I tell you-- 
I slouch toward
the familiar & I can feel the 
warmth of her skin, damp &
pulsating,  beneath her
peasant blouse-- the color 
of lilacs. The fabric-- 
rough against my wet cheek-- 
her amble breast, a pillow 
for my weary head.

And even as I describe this, 
and even as I tell you,
I can smell layers of home:  Ivory 
detergent,  hot grease & Chanel.  
Oh!  how it has left me wanting.  

And I can recall the  healing of her 
embrace--  the weight of her chin 
pressing down atop my head, 
my pursed lips sealed to that 
foreign place that once would not 
welcome my tender infant mouth--
but now ached, filled with
remorse for all she refused me, then.
Because she knew too well, now,
that the world was much more
than she had prepared me for.

Too much for women like she and 
I to endure.  She felt sorry. 

I can tell you that no 
where else have I 
felt as safe, outside my
own mother's embrace, 
than in your arms.

And I ask:  Did she send you?

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