Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Motherless World

No comments

My child self
Learns an orphan's truth
And rages against the
                    triviality of afternoon
                    errands and a speeding
Truck. A shocked
Violence upon frailty.

Touch is an inchoate
Language of veneration and
Loss is flat moonstone
                    without hand-holds; there is
                    no nestle-place to comfort
A penitent. Death
Is silent concierge of

Empty rooms and my
Descent into mother-less-ness
Is a rattle of mourning
                    whose dark enormity
                    shades into new identity. Sun
Spots appear in the
Glare of snow.

Mary Hotlen has three adult children and five granddaughters. She writes nonfiction, short fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in many publications, including Dream International Quarterly, Psychopoetica, Running Deer Press, Red River Review, and Rockford Review. She has worked as an English teacher and as a part-time counselor.

More from

Comments are now closed for this piece.