The Mother by Jay Frankston
She takes the seeds from her womb, scatters
them to the wind and sings to them, the Mother.
And the wind lifts them high above fields, above
fears, takes them round and round then lets them
fall. And flowers and trees and children grow from
the earth. And the sun shines upon them and
makes them blossom. And time watches, counts,
and waits for them
Around the corner the panhandler stands with
his hand stretched out: “Spare any change,
Mister?” There’s Vietnam in his head, and the
blades of the helicopter keep roaring in his ears.
And the children duck at unexpected times as if
they could hear them too. But it’s another war they
hear, the one that follows the one that’s ahead. And
they know, the children, they know that it will take
them and bleed them and drop them from the sky.
And the Mother will scoop them up and return
them to her womb and refuse to give birth again.
Jay Frankston was raised in Paris, France, lives in Mendocino,
California and is the author of several books and of a true tale
entitled “A Chrismas Story” which was published in New York,
condensed in Reader’s Digest, translated into 15 languages, and
called a Christmas classic by many reviewers.