Rodent Mother
she was so well-intentioned
having studied time management
she thought life could be divvied up
into manageable little blocks
stacked and arranged like kids’ blocks
into towers or houses or zoos
whatever configuration would meet
the day’s demands
but the vibrating fleshiness
of real-life babies
did not yield to the stopwatch
diapers piled up and applesauce
punctuating the
patterns on the wall
sweat became familiar
on the nape of her neck
and veins bulged in the anger
that love and life were not the splendors
advertised with fresh-coifed
mothers ready to adore their newborns
in maternal bliss
days and nights became a collage
of splintered unending tasks
of eyelids moist with acid tears
years did not race by
but plodded with lost dreams
that clung to fences
like windblown litter
nails scratched skin and words wounded souls
the cauldron boiling over
mother a rodent caught in a cage
that kept getting smaller
About the Author
Shelley Smithson is a psychotherapist living and working in Elk Rapids, MI, a small town hugging the Grand Traverse Bay in the northwestern area of lower Michigan. She loves to write and read poetry in her spare time. Poems of hers have appeared in Rue Scribe, Door is a Jar, Walloon Writers Review, Passager Journal, and Flying Island Journal. She loves to walk northern Michigan beaches with her family and friends. The natural beauty of northern Michigan is a great source of nurturance to her writing.
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