the Good Mother


Marion Post Wolcott

There had been placid times when the good mother gave me trust.

Faith held together with duct tape and the watered down glue of stability.

The stroke of my cheek while facing the end of times were infrequent and often malignant.

I often wonder had the sterile touch of veiled angels been too much.

Too much to transfix my childish mind to what was kind.

Had I ever truly had a mother.

A mother to curl into with my twisted body and troubled mind.

With purity dug in deep into blood and tears,had she wanted, needed, another.

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