Musings of a Mother


The receptionist said,
“Did the Dr. say 90% chance or more?”
“Oh, then he is sure. You will definitely be having a girl.”
“Congratulations!”
Months of careful deliberate name-picking,
baby showers in all their pinkest glory,
only the girly-est of gifts will do.
Sleepless nights wondering how to raise her,
at what age I will tell her about the birds and the bees?
When will I let her wear makeup?
When will I let her date?
Putting her clothes in order, folding them gently,
hanging each ruffled dress
with utmost anticipation.
I thought the day would never come.
Once in the delivery room,
we were all so sure of your feminine status
we were calling you by name,
using pronouns of “she” and “her.”
The nurse wrote “girl” next to my last name
on I.D. bracelets, preparing for your birth.
“I’ve never done that before,” she said later,
“and I’ll never do it again!”
The next thing I knew your heart rate was lowering.
The nurse went for the doctor who pulled you out with forceps,
the cord around your neck quickly removed.
“Congratulations!”
“It’s a boy!”
My head went spinning with confusion.
Who is this little boy that’s come out of my womb?
He seems a stranger. What of my daughter?
My mind was a blur, not sure who I was anymore.
I held you for a few minutes, stroking your cheek to calm you,
still unsure of my own identity.
Before I knew it, they swept you off,
to poke you and prod you,
test you and wash you.
When my heart finally slowed
and I had time to catch my breath,
already I missed you.
I phoned the nursery and said,
“Where is my son!”


 


The Day You Were Born


was genuine. The earth broke
open for the sun.
Masses of earth rose, canyons
were carved where the rivers poured.
 
The moment your eyes
lifted lash to brow, the moon
fell behind the sky.
Light climbed through the air and rose
to the atmosphere of mine.
 
Your momentum grew
to surround my form, from an
orbit’s ring expanded
and soon became all of me,
my planet, my galaxy.
 

            –originally published by Kind of a Hurricane Press in Switch (The Difference) anthology. 2014
 
 
Waiting Around
after Walking Around by Pablo Neruda
 
It so happens, I am tired of being a woman.
And it happens while I wait for my children to grow
into the burning licks of adulthood. The streaks
of summer sun have gone,
 
drained between gaps into gutters,
and the ink-smell of report cards and recipe boxes
cringes me into corners. Still I would be satisfied
if I could draw from language
the banquet of poets.
 
If I could salvage the space in time
for thought and collect it
like a souvenir. I can no longer
be timid and quiet, breathless
 
and withdrawn.
I can’t salve the silence.
I can’t be this vineyard
to be bottled, corked,
cellared, and shelved.
 
That’s why the year-end gapes with pointed teeth,
growls at my crow’s feet, and gravels into my throat.
It claws its way through the edges of an age
I never planned to reach
 
and diffuses my life into dullness--
workout rooms and nail salons,
bleach-white sheets on clotheslines,
and treacherous photographs of younger me
at barbecues and birthday parties.
 
I wait. I hold still in my form-fitting camouflage.
I put on my strong suit and war paint lipstick
and I gamble on what’s expected.
And what to become. And how
to behave: mother, wife, brave.
 
                                    –originally published by Wicked Banshee Press. Issue #2 Fall 2014.