When I was your mother

I was too soft
my instinct was to cushion
the vulnerability of fontanelle
little pulse
I suckled you
smoothed powder
on bare cheeks
soothed
whispered
rhymes

Now I am dead to you
I was too hard
memories do not hold
words and sentiments
twist in your thoughts
you are heartless
telling me I don’t exist

I nurse my own vulnerabilities
prepare to let you go
again, and again.

(c) Deb Matthews-Zott