A Poem Post My Mother's Death about Mothers in General

First Person Primal Love by Sheila Burns August 2011

She is not always the one

Who bore and birthed us

But the first who daily

Cared enough to nurture us;

First person that we, unconscious

She had a choice, took for granted;

First person whose fingers

Ours regularly gripped;

First person who responded

To our cries, who put,

Begrudgingly, or not, our needs

First.

She is the first person whose face

Ours mimicked with a smile

Whose approval and affection

We craved; the first person

Whose words mattered

The one whose support

We relied upon

First.

She is the first person

Who daily fed us, gave us

Our mother tongue,

Whose teachings constructed us;

First person we disobeyed

Who made us feel

More guilty than afraid;

First person we had to ask

First for permission;

First person who cared

What happened to us

First.

She is who we first rebelled against

And when, not if, she goes away,

Abandons us by choice or fate,

Runs from the burden of us

Or becomes a burden to us before

She is scythed down by Death

No one else will ever be

First.