“I am your master!” I roar,
then giggle at my own obtuseness,
evaporating ire,
spoiling some idiotic lesson
I supposed was important
to my daughters' mental health.
They shake their heads
and roll their eyes,
glancing at me askance
with giggles of their own.
Do they wish they had
a ‘normal’ mother?
At times, perhaps,
but normality is subjective,
and we’ve grown into each other.
I smile with pride,
they smile back, full-faced.
Their mother is a Poet,
master of naught,
but words.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 12/8/03