It’s funny what we remember, and how memory is triggered. In this case, by a soup bowl.
More of my ekphrastic poems can be found here. More on the huitain form here.
Migrant Mother
My mother made me drink pea soup
Until I saw flowers and leaves
At the bowl’s base. Her home-made food.
Ungrateful child, I couldn’t see
This product of anxiety,
The long hours my poor mother
Put in at home, at work, to have to plead
With a fussy child to eat her supper.
©elsp 2025
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And you!
Beautiful poem 💜
Thank you so much x
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Beautiful poem. Mom’s are like that 😂
Thank you so much! And yes, they are.
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