Poem of the Week

Ballade of the Troubled Mother

She was only trying to unlock the boredom a little.
The days stretched out from the bed to her son.
She tried singing songs. She could hear the fiddle
in the back of her mind. The chores left undone,
she would wander all the way to the fence. The sun
going down would remind her of blood. How could
a woman be content with such silence? Was she the one,
who might do what only a woman would?

She was only trying to unlock the boredom. A little
bruise here or there. His hand, his soft palm, a won-
der to behold. She held it, firmly. In the middle
of the day, the heat might lead to many con-
templations. She might just without meaning to. The son
cried and cried. Who would ignore such sorrow? Could
a woman who did so be considered good? None
of the other mothers would do what a woman should.

She was only trying. To unlock the boredom, a little
cunning was needed. The invention of games: one,
two, untie his shoe. Three, four, shards litter
the floor. Was this the story, the way it was sung
from mother to child? Was she transmitting it to her son
when she wept, silently, into his hair? Should
she bind her own mouth to staunch the tune?
She would do just what a mother should.

She was only trying. To unlock the boredom a little
requires a few instruments, a hammer, nails, wood.
She was the key, sang silver, knew the true song of metal.
She would love him the way only a mother could.

-Lynn Kilpatrick

*tm

Comments

[Friend2]

I believe I am disturbed.