May 09, 2012 21:03
Poem about the last person you talked to.
Madre
If she'd guessed during pregnancy
that most of our bonding would come
in doctors' offices while she
handed me tissues, shushed and cooed,
would her eyes have darkened, her hands clenched?
Or would she smile, glad there was that time together,
glad we could laugh and cry like friends,
at peace with each other.