4.1

strawberry boy

 

he was born under a strawberry moon.

when I held him in my womb,

the sweet berry was all I craved.

 

his chubby baby cheeks

covered in red patches.

guilty mother,

did something wrong

cursing him with strawberries.   

 

blossoming from baby to boy –

fresh skin ripened with dimples.

his love for red remains:

a favorite color,

a favorite fruit,

the color of mother’s heart.

 

we lie together, it’s bedtime,

his ear on my chest.

“I like strawberries.” he says

the way he says, “I like you.”

 

I change, feed, play, and read,

bathe, brush, rock, and sing,

“Mommy, do it.” he says.

mommy does it all.

 

sometimes I ask why,

why me?

and he answers the question

from a list of his favorite things,

“I like you.” he says.  

 

three words from a three-year-old,

sweeter than any berry.

guilty mother,

did something right,

cursing him with strawberries.

 

I like you too,

strawberry boy.

I am going to attempt to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month. 30 poems, 30 days for the month of April. I don’t expect much, just words on a page.