Soup Clocks

I used to be the child
circling around mother's legs while she stirred the soup, round and round
that child reaching up and waiting to be held, waiting to give a slobbery kiss
And the mother, giving in, reaching down, and giving the hug
and accepting the wet affection
on her cheek
The child on the hip, the right hand and hip away from the stove in a loving, protective stance
The left hand looking after the dinner.
The mother, the cook, the caregiver.
And now he's the child,
and I'm the mother
and it seems with the stirring of the soup, round and round
the clock goes round and round, too
and in just a few motions, I've grown
and I hope to hold him and give those kisses every day
before he's grown so quick
and that he'll love me
as I love my mother
and we'll all of us
sup on the soup
together.