Mother’s Day

MomMy mother requested a poem for Mother’s Day. It is shared here with her kind permission.

Anchors

I used to get anchors
stuck in my eye
when I was a boy
playing in the woods.

It wasn’t until I was older
that I realized I misheard
my mother calling them “winkers”.

I imagined a tiny black snowflake,
shaped like Popeye’s tattoos,
digging into my bloodshot whites.

I would run inside,
crying like a cyclops
for his mommy.
She would lift
me onto the bright
bathroom counter,
pry my eye open
while I squirmed,
twist toilet paper
into a magic wand
and gently lift away
the offending particle.

She would lean in close
so I could only see
her furrowed brow,
the tip of her tongue
just visible between her lips
as she concentrated
on the delicate operation.

I probably never even thanked
her, despite returning to the world
unblind.

 

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About Bartholomew Barker

Bartholomew Barker was born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough, North Carolina where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.
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2 Responses to Mother’s Day

  1. This is very sweet! How thoughtful!

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