Poetry Corner: Spring Awakes: A Mother's Day Sampling


The Hands of My Italian Mother

It is an easy conversation
even if the subject is not.
And the warmth of red sauce wafts
in the air not something
 I usually care for
but she always makes me love it.
 As we are there dancing around
like her the lioness and I the cub.
The Lord’s work to be done but first,
she fills our stomachs.

And the liquid fire that burns from her eyes.
Of convicted concern that I do
and say everything rightful.
For it is my right and my vindication.
Though Salvation was not by the love
from the womb in which I once dwelt.
The love of this woman whose hands
are covered in garlic now
 the mother of heart and
my familial redemption.
As she sits with the pointed stare
of her liquid fire
where there is finally peace
 for me.


The Heart of A Daughter that Beats within Two Mothers

We blame one another
 for the drama of our daughter
As trying to suppress laughter
as my sister eyes the one at fault.
This is our family vault,
the raven hair girl
 who says mermaids
only have red hair like Auntie.

Though quite little she is sassy and fierce.
Sometimes her quiet candor it pierces
through the confusion and the darkness.
And would one harness the good work
of this one heart that beats
within her mother and I?

And I could cry at the camaraderie
of the woman who gave me this chance.
 At a daughter whose stance is one in the
heart of us,
as she told me this past Christmas season
away from her brothers.
This is just how it is I understand
from her matter of fact words.

We all understand
our rare treasure found
 though hardly comprehending,
 the profound. And the reason?
That a woman of faith though
religions diverse for the love of one daughter,
world peace lived and conversed.