The Prodigal’s Mother

With these hands that held him

To suckle I laid his bed.

He will expect this.

He knows his mother.

I’ve cut the melons in bowls,

Wineskins run over,

The calf hangs over the coals.

Let these say what’s in my heart.

I must go to his brother.

That lad tends his virtue

The way he protects the grapes.

Oh it is tender, this virtue!

As I come near the field

I can see him flaying the earth.

He will scowl when he sees me.

And swear, and shout that I go

(He was angry before his birth)

But I am his mother, I stay

To tell him I know, I know.

— Helen Sorrells (via Mount Angel Abbey)