Mothers-Yours-Mine
An image of a bottle feeder attached to my brother’s cage,
his crib - a newfangled breast without arms; only the arm
of an anti-motherly technique sold by the public freak.
I laugh, loads. I know my mom was not cold. She probably
threw this crank-y thing into the gar-bage; replaced by
a handsome hippo, stuffed with cuteness and cuddlesome.
My mom didn’t use her own milk. The sixties were hip.
No, she didn’t work outside her domicile. Life was a trip.
Tipped the scales for me, a sailor guy asking if I’d breastfeed
my upcoming bundle of joy. Think of that, from a guy’s lips
to my ears. So I looked up the idea and,indeed, thank him.
Still, my mom always nursed me with good milk; and arms.
Her mom didn’t rescue her when she tipped boiling water
and onto her foot, so she climbed up some steps to my cry.
No cells back then, except your home, all alone; with tears -
mine and hers, but hers comforted me while her foot throbbed.
I was not robbed of this story, and thus, am always careful
to carry water to the sink with compassion and caution.
Your mom, did her best? Most did, didn’t they? Selfish, hey!
Heard of one mom who left her infant son all night under the
anguished moon, no crescent to rock him, no suckling.
His anger grew…emotions embedded in darkness. Police
handed him to his grandmother who swaddled him with love
until his anger subsided; subdued by the grace of God.
What kind of mom will you be - will your love blast
into eternity? Put aside yourself, no baby anymore.
Give quick attention to a son and daughter…adore!
|