You, Mom
By Mary Robbins
April 15, 2026
April 15, 2026
We’re talking about you –
what you’d wear, how you’d
style your hair. Load your photo
into an AI app to generate an image
of what you might look like today.
what you’d wear, how you’d
style your hair. Load your photo
into an AI app to generate an image
of what you might look like today.
My sister starts a bath for her son –
Remember when you knelt beside us
by the tub? When halos of suds soaked
our heads, and you’d comb the bubbles
into plastic bowls, for next time.
Remember when you knelt beside us
by the tub? When halos of suds soaked
our heads, and you’d comb the bubbles
into plastic bowls, for next time.
You’d fill a stadium cup under the faucet,
cover our eyes with your hand, and let it
pour over us until the water ran clear.
cover our eyes with your hand, and let it
pour over us until the water ran clear.
We’d rinse, wrap, and drip into terrycloth.
Our wetness soaking your shirt as
you rocked us dry on the edge of the tub.
Our wetness soaking your shirt as
you rocked us dry on the edge of the tub.
I don’t remember when we stopped
expecting the bubbles to be there in the morning.
We’d believed those mounds of holy white
would wait for us forever, piled against the tiles
like drizzle castles made of snow.
expecting the bubbles to be there in the morning.
We’d believed those mounds of holy white
would wait for us forever, piled against the tiles
like drizzle castles made of snow.
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Mary Robbins is a poet born, raised, and living in Raleigh, North Carolina. Her poems have appeared in The Turning Leaf Journal, Plorkology, and South Carolina Review.
Website: maryrobbinspoetry.com
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