Mothering

Joy or pain, my own,
seems normal, due course,
unearned for joy,
my due for pain.

Joy or pain of my children,
adults now, transcends extreme,
insufficient for joy even if named
Nobel, Oscar, Medal of Honor;
unfair, overpowering for pain
even for a stumped toe, a reprimand.

My heart is taffy, pulled,
stretched to ribbon, joy for one
at parenthood,
sickened again with grief for the other
for joy squelched,
pain unfathomable
embers fanned by joy for brother.