Mother’s Day Slam

And so on this most feel-good of tributary days, on the day of the deification of The Mother and all that is maternal, loving, warm, caring, nurturing, selfless, giving and kind, I wish you a Happy Mother’s Day.

To those who were unmothered, who were ignored, abandoned, abused, subsumed, repressed, oppressed, used, treated as a friend, or a play-thing or a no-thing.

To those who grew up without role models, so that a mother means mean and selfish and distracted and childish and foolish and unpredictable and explosive.

To those who mothered and continue to mother themselves, though without the guidance of role models do an imperfect job, alternately indulging the self ‘s every whim and punishing it with endless barrages of internal criticism.

To those who mother others, but not necessarily themselves. To those who had the mother-child role reversed, and learned to play carer, nurturer, listener, genie-in-a-bottle-granter-of-wishes, not just to their own mothers, who couldn’t mother them, but to everyone, stranger or friend, who needed a mother, at any time of day, or night, in any place, or any space, appropriate or not.

To those women who cannot or will not have children, you are not less of a woman for it.

To those of you who find today hard because of any or all of these things. To those who feel left out.

I wish you all a Happy Mother’s Day.


I am hermetically sealed in a glass egg — amber-tinted, golden when I exhale
Translucent, gleaming, it throbs with each beat of my heart, causing ripples in the ocean and tremors in the earth
My paramour can feel them right across the globe, where the moon and the stars are upside-down
Venus is always the first star to glimmer in the night — no matter where you are, love comes first
She is also the last you’ll see before sunrise — love comes last too

The egg is hard as a diamond — demons bounce off its shell like India rubber bullets pinging into outer space
Incursions are imminent but I am immune to excursions
I can make the shell porous when I choose, to inhale others and commune —
I simply soften my shoulders and smile and they come to me when I breathe


Mirrors can be lovers or enemies, phony or true. They can tell you what you want to hear or reduce you to tears. How do you know which mirror is accurate? I’ve always wondered about that.

Lady Icarus

The moth flew too close to the light — gold dust fell from her wings as they started to smoke and she smiled in dim ecstasy as she fell to the earth, at the very last moment catching a cool current to spread her wings upon and rise again.


Hope dies when she is trampled on too often when her mouth is sewn up with an oily cotton string when her words are met with false echoes from those who draw nourishment from her hive and have no way to make a sweet cake for themselves for they have no wellspring within not even in their imagination so they have to use Hope like a battery and they wind her up now and then with a crank that creaks reluctantly when they need a shot of vitality.