blending food not moods
dissecting tantrums of sibling rivalry
slicing
up ribbons of childhood frustration
into
bite-size chunks.
When
I’ve done this,
I begin to mix mother-juice;
that
delicious blend of love, wisdom and protectiveness
full
of free radicals, nothing but the best for my family
I’m
not even sure they notice.
Then
I start with the vacuum cleaner
sucking
up arguments of spiteful words
said
throughout the day
folding
up old resentments
to
store neatly in the drawer.
Throughout
the house I see you naked
discarded snacks and dirty clothes,
the
parts of yourself you wish to hide
but
I know who you really are
and keep your secrets in silence.
Fragments
of toys with sharp edges lacerate my feet
as
I try to clear your floor
of your symbols of active play
so completes my mother ritual
it’s
the same for most of the mamas.
All rights reserved.
Mara Friedman
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