Happy Mother’s Day
As I Pondered in Silence
All these poems all these
hungry things and all the women behind them
My mother’s mother’s mother
was a sailor and her daughter
was a witch—healthy solid
vital curious amused –
and her daughter a nurse and hers a poet
and mine a nomad.
My beautiful body unfolded from
their beautiful bodies and my daughter’s from mine.
Even now – looking out on a light May rain –
and the lilacs almost at peak – I can feel
their moisture smell their scent
hear the wars they all made weapons for
or bandages or long distracting letters
clamor for their sons and daughters.
These sailors and witches and nurses
will not read my hungry poems.
They made their own kind of poems –
and fed them too—chickens, jams, cans
of cream of something soup.
Anybody nurtured from them
was so backhandedly the point the making.
I would begin with them
and not with war – though war was and is the field of their world
as much a part of each
as the unfolding enfolding folds of their bodies—
I would begin with them and the things they made and patched
and fed for life, in death, for the body
believing in the body and yes the soul too I too
am come chanting the chant of their battles
I, above all, promote brave women.
Sherry Robbins, Happy Mother’s Day!