Dove

At my mother's house,
the doves fly freely.

Where am I?

Coos call forth memories,
of far off grandmothers.

I arrive.

She swoops low,
her breast pale and plump.

She is all heart,
beating rapidly.

I want to hold
her shivering heat,
and fly.

She is my mother.

Nursing at her pale grey breast,
I will not take for granted the gift of flight.

If I had a Dinner Genie

She'd pour me a glass of wine,
and tell me,
"it will be fine."

My dinner Genie,
fixes fondue
and maple bacon scones too.
Her vittles stick to my lips,
but not my hips.

Kids complain,
but one look from my dinner Genie,
and kids refrain.

My dinner Genie,
washes dishes in a whirl. 
Clean and dry, 
I'm so happy, I could cry.

Then my dinner Genie,
goes back to her bottle,
and I'm ready for bedtime routines,
full throttle.

My dinner Genie,
she doesn't exist.
Maybe that's why,
things are so amiss.