a parent’s deep concern, a worrying, an ingrained fear;
a mother’s breath, held back, waiting…
random awakenings, listening, checking,
straining to hear that cough, that fever to break.
Your mother, your mother’s day, your loves?
With the last disordered scraps from the iron pan
cast against the tin trash bin,
the dog whimpering,
mother worried… always worrying:
what will ever become of my babies
if something should happen to me.
put on the sweater,
I am cold.
For My Wife:
I gave her my love
in french toast from grained mountain bread
refined with vanilla and raisins
rich cream mixed in
a mother’s day love kiss
breakfast – my wife
kvennást, kvenna siðr