Quilt. Don’t Make Me

tell you. Rather not.
It’s embarrassing, but
they were ordinary,
not noticed, everyday.

When first packing,
the move after marriage,
grabbed it for wrapping
around breakables.

At home they’d covered
every bed, common things,
even outgrown pajammys
were patched in them.

They weren’t special,
were they? I mean
every stitch hand-designed,
home-made, wrinkled, worn

out beyond the reach
of toddlers, old fashioned
map of constant watching–
the way mothers love.


One comment on “Quilt. Don’t Make Me

  1. Cristina says:

    “The way mothers love”… That gave substance and the poem reinvented itself in my mind. Beautiful.
    *thinking how four words can twist the mind and the heart*

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