P. Melissa Fisher
Poetry, With Love
Her smile takes her face over when she laughs,
And in her eyes,
I am the center of the universe.
The wisdom of the ages meets child-like wonder
In the tiny blur that is the slight frame in perpetual motion.
Watch me dance, Momma. Ballet first, right Momma?
“That’s right, Megan, feet in third.”
Then she sits suddenly motionless
To fixate on Elmo’s World
But for only a moment
After that, she just as abruptly returns to her own
Demanding that I turn to watch
As Time Goes By
Once, soft and new, he craved my touch,
A mother’s hand to stroke his cheek
And dry his tears.
When did his scraped knees become immune
To the kisses that had always
Healed his wounds before?
No longer one for showy displays
Today the closest he allows me
Is buying the Stridex pads
That now stroke the cheek that I caressed.
His love takes the form
Of wrestling holds;
A hug of sorts—I guess.
They never see the shades of gray
That are added to the world’s simple
Black and white.
No hidden agendas
Give dual meanings to their promises,
And a pinkie-swear is unbreakable.
A kiss will heal most wounds,
And weapons are just pretend—
Turning the art of war
Into a game
Ending by suppertime.