Not all her day foundered between sink and stove,
As raves would have us think. To watch her hand
Beguile us pigs at supper with sharp stews
And a kind clout, one learned that such scenes derive
From some tradition: her praise stung like a brand,
Disgrace bred rage, and rage broke down as blues
That made despair worth dredging. Our whole lives
Could have been spent unraveling sweetness from
Her hate! Instead, how guileful we have become,
Reeling between a Scylla that contrives
To snap off, one by one, our heads that sprout
Decisions, and black pit of mothering doubt.
No, that is not all. Sometimes, we gaze back
Across the simmering leagues, and we hear out
The music of her eyes, flashing from their rock.

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