Motherhood

She limpits my leg
suctioned on, screaming
for an icy-pole.

He buckles and squirms,
in arms, wanting out,
wanting down, up, on, off.

She calls me stupid, a bitch.
Mightily high and strumpeted
she throws open the freezer
and fingers her prize.

He demands suction,
bodily moulding
of mouth and breast.
He sucks on my arm, and
wails like a wounded seal
at the lack of sustenance.

She’s quiet now,
flinted and formidable
the challenge is made.

I don’t have the energy.
My battle gear is mulched under
four years of dirty nappies.
Half-hearted, half –arsed,
“No…”
I suggest, but she’s immovable
and I waver only slightly, before caving.

Sternly- “Only one” I say,
but face is not saved
and I’ve doomed her to ‘brat-hood’.

I sit.
He sucks, she sucks,
he kneads me like a stress ball
she plays me like a lute.
And we’re all happy.

 

© Sue King-Smith