An arrangement of thoughts in the head of a
believer dances the woozy dance of a trance
hypnotized prayer maker partnering from time
to time with deliverance.
This is the day a saint sits drinking tea in the
vestibule of a church, wondering if his doubts
might ever bring him closer to understanding
the mysteries of motherhood.
Water of mother wash me, milk of mother
quench me, tear of mother save me – we are the
sons of women – who loved, stilled and
calmed our worries.
This is the day a hungry man will kiss the softness
of his lovers breast, cognizant of her faithfulness
and then sleep to the sounds of her singing –
dreaming of family.
Paint me mother and draw me loving and thinking
the most profound thoughts of others in the
university of your life, within crowds of beautiful
people who are laughing.
This is the day reason can fall apart, the day races
may be won by long shots, the day a boy will emerge
from a cave speaking a wonderful and comprehensible
Feel me mother, touch my forehead, watch the
trembling lips of my terror – sooth your troubled
child kneeling in his room, praying that his efforts
will not go unnoticed.
This is the day doves leave the pool of Lourdes
healed, this is the day firecrackers announce new
seasons, the day judges adjourn from criticizing
children and the innocence of their pleasures.
Mosaic by Beth Norton