November 2021
Bio Note: I’m just back from the Jersey shore. It was Indian summer. I indulged myself with greeting-morning daily rituals and had some great conversations with the waves.
Motherhood Weaving
A mere conjugation of man plus woman,
motherhood picks up the shuttle, widens the belly
until a a tapestry emerges complete.
The act of procreation
lifts up the threads on a loom,
passes the weft through the warp.
As shedding rises up the warp yarns,
emotions stretch, the reed battens against the cloth.
The release of finished goods onto a beam
takes nine months to complete.
Motherhood doesn’t control of the process.
The loom weaves a pattern and design
DNA gives her to follow, she doesn’t create it.
Motherhood hasn’t changed from pioneer days,
it produces a textile.
The mother lacks control over what she makes.
Whether she weaves a blouse, potholder or rug,
what comes out she takes home from the hospital.
It’s her job to feed, clothe and wash the baby.
A woman uses the cloth gently,
protects it from breakage,
and delights in the intricacy of image and line
waiting to be revealed in the weaving.
Pummeled
a storm
overtakes
Afghanistan
families
who backed the wrong side
mob the airport
on Kabul broadcasts
shouts and pleas for help
papers waved
some men
break through a fence
push onto the airstrip
they sprint
chase a plane
down the runway
hands of flesh
clasp the shell
of a jet
one refugee
clings to metal wings
to save him
the plane lifts
but the man
is no bird
in my garden
yellow and red raindrops
press out daylight
©2021 Ingrid Bruck
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell her or him. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL