A Square of One’s Own (A Dark Mother’s Day Poem)

Her fingers insist on a furlough after
punching three months of soccer,
trumpet lessons, and play dates into
the family calendar.

Like quilted cornfields, the grid
stretches into the next time zone.
Maybe that patch is hers?
Dinner date out for her trouble?

Her kids, like spiders, expand
their webs, from hayrides
to sleigh rides, late for this
to catch that.

But not the mom, who spins the web,
repairs it and documents it
endlessly, until she must lie down and
fade away past death.


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