My mother asked me, “Come here and rub my feet.”
Past dinner, this is frequently her request.
Her couch is where we both usually meet.
The lotion I apply smells floral and sweet,
after I remove her socks at her behest.
My mother asked me, “Come here and rub my feet.”
My thumbs dig through her sole’s calluses and greet
her toes and instep, her ankle’s cleft and crest.
Her couch is where we both usually meet.
Tucking her blanket underarm like a sheet,
she exclaims my foot massages are the best.
My mother asked me, “Come here and rub my feet.”
Our conversation and laughter isn’t discreet,
as she wanes in the pillows, trying to rest.
Her couch is where we both usually meet.
For her, I know this always feels like a treat;
but, I have done this less since I became a guest.
My mother asked me, “Come here and rub my feet.”
Her couch is where we both usually meet.
This villanelle is copyright 2026 by Jessica McLean. File sharing is encouraged.
This poem is dedicated to my mom, Heidi McLean, and to our little ritual of rubbing her feet with lotion after dinner.
“They both began to giggle and then — for the first time in their lives — Lauren and Emily fell into a side-splitting round of laughter, the cleansing, complete sort of laughter only a mother and daughter can share.”
— Karen Kingsbury, on page 271 of her book, “Even Now”
The Rose 
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