My Mother, Eleanor

A brand new mother, like no other
Yet, she is not my mother
She came to me when I was nine
Our father bride, I thought her mine

To our family she brought class
Which fork to use and how to pass
Mimi singing La Boheme
Silk stockings with a straight seam

Her compassionate heart began far away
Suffering genes, hard put to play
Wandering across the Russian steppe
Her father's sperm is getting set

That Russian winter is in her soul
A minimalist appetite in her bowl
Her passion is for children, baseball, every flower
A push for truth her enduring power

With ample breast, legs long and lean
A serious person, a mind that's keen
My mother Eleanor is quite a lady
Always has been, especially new now at eighty.

by Mollie Odell Bourne

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