My name awakens me,
a mantra I feel my way toward;
the pulling ears and clinging pajamas,
damp forehead of a child angered
I cannot mend an entire world.
His chills leave me sweating as I Mother.

I’ve been here before as my own mother,
my mother’s mother and further back.
All of us with hair streaked red
from some unknown matriarch.
Concocting remedies, nursing
with both herbs and science,
intuition and Googled facts.

One soul migrating through memory
yet each time relearning the rote motions
of rocking and whispered prayers
up to the listening ear.

The lullaby applied as balm,
a salve allowing sleep to gain victory.
Must we repeat a life in full?
Maybe the one loving act
performed in darkness can suffice.

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