It was such a pleasure to attend part of the launch party for the anthology: Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women. What a reminder that poetry matters. Telling stories matters. So a huge thank you again to Ingrid Wilson and Gabriela Marie Milton for gathering voices from all around the world to share their experiences. I have two poems nesting inside with so many other great poets.
You can listen to a recording of readings from the Anthology here on youtube. The poem below is not in the anthology, but it came to mind during the readings, so I decided to share it again today. I wrote this poem many moons ago as I was just beginning to understand what it means to be a mother, and I hope you enjoy it.
Mother of Serving Ware
Mother of serve ware,
matriarch to our mouths,
why are you neglected?
Repeatedly unselected?
Banished from backyard barbecues,
daily table settings,
and afternoon picnics?
Why is your roundness rejected?
Is it because you cannot
stab or slice?
You cradle instead of castrate;
ladle and entice
instead of twist and gyrate.
Do we so soon forget
our move from breast
to sucking on your surface?
The way you lovingly mix
mushy meals?
Mother Spoon,
now kitchen maid,
you stir our sour lemonades,
scoop our last suppers,
slave out indulgent desserts,
only to make a guest appearance,
an afternoon delight,
to the main courses of life.
Subordinate to forks and knives.
Weaned from function,
to formality,
to our own finality.
Perhaps, it’s that we see our
own reflections in your face,
you feel too basic for use,
but too nostalgic to replace.
© 2014 | K.Hartless
Artwork: “Spoon Tree” by Egle Ojasoo
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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