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?

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem



This Poems Story

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.