Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
His Mother Speaks


Sometimes another boy will play with him,
and then, though his face is made of stone,
a suggestion of eyes and nose, no mouth at all,
I know he is happy, because I am his mother
and mothers know these things.

He and the other boy go down the slide,
jostling and tussling like any two boys,
and I thank the other parent, a dad,
for letting my son play with his son,
and he tells me That's OK, like this is
all perfectly normal, and the dad's face,
his readable, human face, tells me he
believes this, that there's nothing wrong
with my son, no reason he shouldn't
find a friend other than me
or the boxes and cans
in his favorite kitchen cabinet.

Later, I will stroke my son's face,
this smooth mystery I've loved,
as tears move through me
like water through a wall.

Marilyn Cavicchia lives in Chicago with her husband, two children, one box turtle, and three fancy goldfish. She is an editor at the American Bar Association. Two of her poems appeared in the February ’11 issue of Literary Mama. Other publications in which her poems have appeared, or soon will, include: the summer ’11 issue of The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, the fall/winter issue of The Aurorean, and an upcoming issue of Alimentum.

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Lovely and loving poem. Beautiful.
The depth and beauty of a mothers love are captured in this poem; while reading I could feel the burst of love and the tremors of sadness. Thanks for sharing.
Chills ran through me; what a beautiful moment.
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