Sometimes I am tired of being the mother
to these daughters who are not my own
Play nice. Say you’re sorry. Honey, you hurt her feelings.
I sit on the swings
One of those old swingsets that still contains swings for people over the age of six
Not brightly colored plastic: metal, a little rusted
As my feet lift off the ground
pump back and forth
the beat of the A-frame matches my heart but
The sigh of protest from the structure
Strains to help gravity pull me down
Sometimes I feel like a terrible leader
to these children who squabble and fuss
Honey, you hurt her feelings. Play nice. Say you’re sorry.
I sit on the swings
Committees of grown-up babies linked together
trying to fly higher and higher
always pulled down to earth
Higher, mama, higher, Icarus calls
unable to match his sister
wanting to fly with his brother
And I push once more against gravity
Sometimes I wish we could fly
shoulder bones snapping out into wings but
Say you’re sorry. Honey, you hurt her feelings. Play nice.
I sit on these swings
One of those old swingsets firmly bolted into the earth
A little rusted, but strong
We cannot resolve our differences on the ground
I hear the Canada geese flying overhead,
the sigh of protest from above
the sound melding into what I hear
If my feet lifted off the ground
Gravity collects us all, in the end
thepotterortheclay 