E.P. Rains

Birthed into a banquet
To take or leave
All the morsels before me

Her womb is warm bread
Proved five times
A sister, three brothers and me

Her touch is thick honey
Coating your gut
Curing all disquiet within

Her mind is tough meat
Difficult to soften
Made strong with sinew

Her tongue is a rare spice
Burning fresh wounds
Enhancing our deepening flavors

Her beauty is a tender pastry
Layered and rising
The skill of many years

I have feasted on my mother
Gorged every bite
As my children would devour me