Are You My Mother?
My mother was a woman in a poem,
Though of course I didn’t know it at the time.
My earliest memory of her is strange.
It’s her back, in the rain,
Running from our burning house.
She had pinned us to the porch
(for her three babies)
I figured later,
In Pat’s poor brain that day meant STAY.
I was about three. At six,
She left for good, as far as childhood goes.
Then the others came.