Poem: Mother's Day

 
She has not been struck by lightning, true. Hurrah! 
It's Mother's Day, a holiday, the storm's been quelled,   
the chemo's kicking ass. She's safe and dry for now.  
She stands upright and stirs a soup of beans and kale.      

She's dodged the bolt, oh yes indeed, is feeling well,   
has not been stricken down; is neither ill nor lying   
flat upon the ground. Has not been knocked uncon-  
scious! It's simply Sunday 10 a.m., she's frying     

eggs. Her dish rack's full of cups and dishes drying.   
She just now read an email, loving, from her son,   
who says he'll call or skype her later. He's performing  
circus in Berlin (an acrobat, a cabaret), what fun!      

They'll play the usual catch-up game. He'll run   
a few things by her. She's fifty-nine, he's twenty-eight.  
She hasn't seen him in a while. The sky is clear, 
no rain in sight. But if that's so, what lies in wait if not  

electrocution (smile)? What's next? What fate?   
Another lump? A quick decline? When he was born,  
huge clouds of pain and bliss had drenched her house,  
drowned out the past. Had quenched her thirst and torn     

her world wide open. Oh tender bolt, oh crucial shock, 
oh baby boy adorned in angel light, a wonder to behold.   
But now? What now? Her future seems so small. . . and yet,
dear child, it also seems eternal as she watches you unfold.

Comments

[Jeff]

OK. Tears this time. Such a good poem, Jane. Thank you.