Actually, it was a recipe holder.
Ok, it was a stick painted yellow
with brown spots and a glued-on
clothes-pin stuck into a styrofoam
cup filled with plaster of Paris.
It was a Mother’s Day present.
It came from kindergarten
and it was in my hands when I got mad.
(Mom, it’s my turn to sit up front!)
It was unwrapped by my stomping feet.
It is the eyes shut tight
brown-and-yellow-and-powdery-white
taint of every Mother’s Day since.
Boston Literary Magazine - spring 2012
Oh I can see this so clearly.......did your mom laugh or cry?
ReplyDeleteI don't remember, Sherry. I do remember having to sit in the back. :-)
DeleteNice story.
ReplyDeleteThose simple ones hang with you. You shared it well.
ReplyDeleteLovely story.
ReplyDeleteThis is a good poem. Very poignant.
ReplyDelete