Wash my feet mother
of the juicy green
fresh mown grass
of the dusty lane
corn field dirt
that was so silky soft
brown sand.
Wash them, please, back to innocence.
Time for clean stiff sheets
and little girl long legs slide
in-between cool cocoon.
Cry yourself to sleep mother
for the long drawn out years of waiting
for your daughter to be
a cheerleader, an innocent,
the sister you tried to create on your own.
Tell me, mother, were there years you
smiled?
|