Mothers Day
Sitting on the lip of my bathtub,
hunched over the edge,
dripping and draped in terry cloth
I cry out, "Oh God".
I pray.
More sincerely than I have since I lost my faith.
I am certain someone is listening.
I am certain of this because I need it to be true.
In forty-nine minutes it will be mother's day.
I cry out, "Oh God. I love her".
And I do.
More sincerely than I have since I left the pasture.
It is overwhelming and horrifying.
After all this, I still love her.
After all this
she loves me too.
How can it be so?
Now that I am a heretic
Now that I am her failure.
After the things we've said to each other.
How can there be any love left?
I've come back through
my mother's pasture, prodigal daughter.
Cresting the grassy hill I used to watch all day
and long for, wondering if the Northwind felt freer
than me.
I am looking at her:
stubborn and weeping
and loving.
She always loved me. I was hers
before I was even my own.
And it is painfully plain.
All that transpired beaten trivial under the bludgeoning
of loving
and being loved.
Mama, when you die I will weep.
Because there is something deeper than betrayal
And it is devotion.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
