Yes, I birthed them all.
Every bright soldier, every one.
You can't say the lame one
turned to salt after all.
The paper dancer?
Not made of the sternest stuff.
I would have advised him if he'd asked,
but who asks their mother once
they're grown and a soldier
besides? I was always inside him,
but easy to ignore.
Flimsy thing, that dancer.
I wished she'd stayed to mourn
instead of following. I would have
liked to know her better. But that's
why her spangle blackened, I say.
She chided herself. He?
A perfect heart, and me still with him.
He should have chosen a milk maid
instead, someone else well made of tin.
It would have been interesting
to talk to her mother,
us both stepping back,
watching the good sparks fly.
Alicia Cole lives and writes in Huntsville, AL. She's the editor of Priestess & Hierophant Press, and a visual artist. You can find her at www.priestessandhierophant.com and www.facebook.com/AliciaColewri
Alicia Cole lives and writes in Huntsville, AL. She's the editor of Priestess & Hierophant Press, and a visual artist. You can find her at www.priestessandhierophant.com and www.facebook.com/AliciaColewri
6 comments:
Loved this, Alicia! I imagined the mother of the milk maid being a cow creamer, laughing it up with the spoon mother. 3rd stanza cinched it for me, and it was all heart after that.
Wonderful, Alicia! It was a "go" for me from the first line on!
Wonderful!
Thanks, Robyn! I really appreciate your feedback and love your idea for the milk maid's mothet.
Thanks, Peggy!
This is lovely. I've been going through some of my grandmother's things, including her silver; as I handle it, it does feel alive somehow, and open to possibility.
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