Licking His Hands

You sit strapped
to your chair--
still small--
I can lift you.
Bend you,
bodily, to my will--
enforce with voice
a portrait
of the adult world.

Breaking the silent pact
of mothers,
I gave you
the candy
of your choice--
blue,
artificial,
cloying blueberries--
you selected it
carefully,
weeding
the options.

The candy
does not smell
at all
like the fruit
I palmed, frozen,
into my mouth
pounds at a time
when I carried
you.

Now,
your sticky hands
and mouth
have the
sheen
of sugar.
I have nothing
with me
to wipe the stickiness
that only I
find inconvenient.
Taking your palms
to my mouth,
I lick them.
You yield your hands
and giggle
as I work
them over.

Twice, three times.

Bringing that sweetness
into my own mouth,
bringing
bits of cotton,
sand from the playground,
the salt-smell of childhood,
back into me.

Meghan Mullaney