100 Words - Wrapping up National Poetry Month

In which I have slipped into a food coma

So I can't think of what to write here. Both of kids were home with both of their partners. What is it about children being home on a holiday that triggers the instinct to cook and eat insane amounts of food? I expect not to be hungry again for three and a half days.

We had 22 submissions last week for the challenge, and I think that might be a record. My pick of the week comes from Lycanthropia who shares my guiltless love of overpriced lotions with exotic sounding ingredients.

and you know none of what I’m now going to tell you

There’s the vanilla and sweet orange lotion I bought today for nine dollars, I used the tester and my arms still smell like cookies. There are the strange bright red bumps on my right leg which, I can’t imagine what caused them, they don’t itch. There’s my recently acquired taste for pinot grigio with ice cubes, and my new used collected sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay; there’s my crisp white sheets and then there’s how thankfully I stretch out beneath them at two a.m. after dancing with new friends, grateful at last for your sheer and total absence.

This is the last week of National Poetry Month. As promised, the prompt this week is again from a poem, but also in anticipation of the rapidly approaching Mother's Day. No matter how imperfect she might have been, don't forget to show your love and gratitude.


the last time i was home
to see my mother we kissed
exchanged pleasantries
and unpleasantries pulled a warm
comforting silence around
us and read separate books
i remember the first time
i consciously saw her
we were living in a three room
apartment on burns avenue
mommy always sat in the dark
i don’t know how i knew that but she did
that night i stumbled into the kitchen
maybe because i’ve always been
a night person or perhaps because i had wet
the bed
she was sitting on a chair
the room was bathed in moonlight diffused through
those thousands of panes landlords who rented
to people with children were prone to put in windows
she may have been smoking but maybe not
her hair was three-quarters her height
which made me a strong believer in the samson myth
and very black
i’m sure i just hung there by the door
i remember thinking: what a beautiful lady
she was very deliberately waiting
perhaps for my father to come home
from his night job or maybe for a dream
that had promised to come by
“come here” she said “i’ll teach you
a poem:

i see the moon
the moon sees me
god bless the moon
and god bless me
i taught it to my son
who recited it for her
just to say we must learn
to bear the pleasures
as we have borne the pains


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