Mother and Son

11 April 2019

https://poems.culturing.net/2019/04/mother-and-son/

“Come,” she says,
“the broth is ready.
Medicine is almost brewed.”

“But mother, I am well.”

“No, you are not.”

He takes a sip,
and starry ships,
and dreams of other hips,
slip out, beneath her smiling whip.

And what of other women?

“Mother, you know best,” he says,
and sits stock-still for days.