The thirty-third poem from my poetry collection Conception.

[More:]

Earth Mother

I don’t have twigs for hair,
though static makes its strands frizzle
and crackle like straw.
There are no crumbs of soil
under my nails
just slimy lumps of soap.
Baby poo still smells
like baby poo,
and I’ve never taken kindly
to people weeing on me.
But I do love the nudge
of their baby faces
snug in my neck,
the soft sigh of their sleeping breath,
the snorts of laughter
which escape their chuckling cheeks,
the tips of their tiny tongues
sticking out their mouths
like acorns.
I love being the one
to feel their first teeth
to see their first steps
to hear their first words.
I love being their Mummy
and knowing they love me,
whoever I am,
earth mother or not.