Mother May I
The grass, so cool and gentle,
reaches out its ten thousand hands
and tickles the skin that lays upon it.
It's mother's rejuvenating lullaby
and sends forth a call greater than any siren.
It bites. Mother bites. Her children bite.
Minions of the moon feed on the open,
lend me your sick, your tired, your lonely,
so I can naturally select them.
What a punchline. A cliff hanger. A plot twist.
Is motherhood not meant to be sacred?
For how can something so graceful in its might
be so deceitful and bare sharp canines when it grins?
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Sam Schindler is a writer native to New York State. She focuses on fiction and poetry and this is her first published work. Sam would like to thank everyone for their support.