|
Poem by Sue Payne
Mother May I
Mother, may I take four baby steps? I ask, placing one foot in front
of the other to show how little ground I'd cover.
No, you may not, says Mother, who is my little brother.
Patty's turn. The girl-next-door sucks up:
Mother, may I please, please, please take two giant steps
with a running start? He's sure to say Yes, you may.
Tommy gets jazzed and shouts Umbrella Steps are best,
then helps himself to six. Mother leans back
out of reach. We screech: You forgot to say Mother may I!
The sun burns up the Road to Mother, melts my Keds
on the driveway while I invent another step to tempt
my brother into letting me get closer to Mother.
Mother may I please take five Rabbit Steps? I inquire.
He eyes my furry coat, my twitchy feet and nose, reluctant
to grant anyone one of those.
No, you may not, Mother declares. He never lets me win!
Stops me before I get within his shadow, holds up one hand
like a crossing-guard's paddle, imitates a stern face.
I watch what steps he allows the neighbor kids to take.
See how he orchestrates the finish line, making certain
that the role of Mother will never be mine.
Permission sits on his tongue like a lemon drop. He rolls it
into the pocket of his cheek and grins.
My mouth waters, our Mother calls, another game begins.
Sue Payne works as an attorney in Chicago. She holds
a master's degree in English, and this is her first
published poem.
|
