Painstaking
I counted sewing pins
in the pin cushion before
and after I sewed your
little dress for fear
a pin gone stray would
pierce your tender
roaming toddler feet
I seemed programmed to
meet your every need to
hear your every beat
who knew this mother
who turned down dolls
and played with balls and
trucks when she was a girl
would have a place
deep down inside herself
waiting glad to put all else aside
to catch your pointy pins
and drive you to your dreams
BIO
Susan Shea is a retired school psychologist who was raised in New York City. Since
she has returned to writing poetry this year, her poetry has been accepted in a few
dozen publications, including Feminine Collective, Ekstasis, Persimmon Tree
Literary Magazine, and The Avalon Literary Review.
Recent Posts
See AllI don’t concern myself with wrinkles now that I have started drawing eyebrows. Some days my eyebrows are movie star right so high in the arched places. It’s like I am looking down my nose from a cliff
They say he cannot reach me, cannot touch me. They say anxiety breeds him, makes him. He’s real enough to me. Those shocking, sibilant, small sounds unnamed, unknown, whistling down the wind. Cob spid
What if Zen gardens Were mazes to trap the mind In a song of stones ~ Henry Beissel sand ripples fan out as echoes of mindfulness 'mid designer rocks concrete forms take shape then erode into sandy il
