Poem: Mothers Day

Mothers Day

Thinking about you, Mother,
my eyes will grow watery.
I feel really bad about
the episiotomy.

First I tore up your hoo-ha,
but soon to break your poor heart
when they cut through the chord and
we began to grow apart.

Pencil on the doorframe shows
our heights in yearly benchmarks.
They can be painted over,
but not so with your stretch marks.

You wear the care you've given
in scars throughout your body,
and, in return, I made for
you crafts that were all shoddy.

Did you want an ashtray, or
maybe it's a soap holder?
Or a bad flower drawing
you can keep in a folder?

Will this garbage you're compelled
to keep help make us even
for the thousands of hours
of your sleep deprivation?

Or for the total neglect
of you every other day?
I really hope so because
here's a poem for Mothers Day.

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