Her hands,
etched ...
a legion of delicate lines.
Spotted and raised
with the red-blue rivers.
These hands,
move upward to sweetly caress
the boy's face.
And with love learned well
she stokes his rough cheek.
He bends
and kisses her brow.
"I love you, grandma."
And this his most earnest love,
love returned to love received,
unfeigned and unconditional.
Mama.
Mama.
I'm sad sick hurt Rock me.
On your lap Please.
You don't know what it is,
but you make it feel better.
I get scared, mama.
. . . It seemed you turned an endless summersault. I'd lay a hand upon my belly
laughing.
With closed eyes I'd touch the love unexplainable.
Your apron is dirty.
Your clothes never match.
You sing off key.
But when there's something at the window
You let me know
it's just the wind.
You sit on my bed,
'till I fall asleep again.
. . . I buried my face in the feel and smell of baby silk hair.
. . . Fingers brushed your hair away and squared the baseball cap down and sent
you back to the field.
A little dirt never hurt anyone.
Mama,
Time flys.
I'm laying in bed sad sick hurt
and it's not about the wind.
. . . Reaching to place the loose strands of hair, you stop my hand.
There is always an inescapable longing
To be there . . . close to your breast.
Breathing . . .
with the rhythm of your breathing.
Rocking . . .
with the rhythm of your rocking.
On your lap . . . your lap . . . mama
Let me cry . . . me cry . . . mama
Let me love . . . me love . . . mama
"Love you, grandma."
He bounds out the door.
She walks to me
and with those well-lived hands
she holds my face
and kisses my brow.
"Don't worry.
He has a good home
and a good heart."
On your lap . . . your lap . . . Mama
jeanne rene
