Mother

            Had my pink baby fingers

            been dexterous enough

            to grasp those afternoons

            hanging like dust breathed into

            a beam of creamy light,

            your cheeks spattered with

            broken blood vessels and

            soft arms holding me whole,

            I would not be fifteen with freshly-washed

            hands leaning back on

            the leather couch,

            learning the scent of a cousin’s

            newborn hair run

            through with soapy water,

            the feel of child swaddled in

            sweet, ripe skin.

Reviews

[Antoñyo]

What a nicely-written piece of tenderness captured in time.
Thanks for sharing

[Emily Murman]

Thank you so much; your comment means a lot to me!

[Antoñyo]

You're welcome