Marguerite C. Anderson Poet Narrative

What Love begets

The mother loved him before she met him. 
On days when her love posed a threat 
She gambled with her health 
And cradled him against her breast,  
And clenched her teeth  
to preserve the gift her love begets.
She supposed that with this seed 
Her soul could soar free,  
And he- her gentle dove- 
Would one day bring her comfort from all the men
who gave her unreciprocated love. 

The day came when, in her jubilee,  
The mother held him close as he suckled.  
She journeyed with him through desert lands 
And her love planted seeds that sprouted 
Fruits from the sand. 
Then one day - 
In a cataclysmic transform -
He despised the graceful garlands on his head 
And instead 
She bled from the blow of his knuckles. 
She watched him pluck the pendants from his neck. 
And in his unreciprocated love,  
the mother was decked. 

She nurtured him, still, for love bears all. 
So in her hospice,  
she held him close. 
For what does he know, what does he truly know 
“Of Love's austere and lonely offices”?

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