Migrant Mother – A Poem

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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