September 2024
Kate Flaherty
kateflaherty@gmail.com
Author's Note: "Day One—My Son" may not be what one would expect for the theme of Fruits of Our Labor, but it was definitely labor for both mother & son. I'm happy to report that though the nurse held up the cord that was wrapped around his neck with a knot pulled tight and pontificated, "We don't deliver very many of these alive," Sean not only survived but thrived.

Day One—My Son

	Labor Day Weekend, 1981

I want to stretch, I’m cramped in here
Are the walls closing in?
Now there’s a wave pushing me.
What’s going on? I thought I was in charge.	
Every time I feel that push, I start to choke.
Whew, now I’ve swallowed something.
Can you be hanged and drowned
at the same time?
Another push.	Help!
Is that light ahead?
Where am I going?
Another push.
I’m stuck in this hallway.	
The light is brighter. I’m still strangling.
Whoosh! I’m through.
Someone takes away the thing 
that was choking me.
I can breathe.
It’s so cold out here and bright.
Get me some shades!
Someone wipes me down,
Wraps me in a blanket.
I’m in some warm arms.
Is that a kiss on my head?
Even better, some nice warm milk!
This is the life.  Yum, yum.
I drink all I want.
Yawn.
I could get used to this.
Burp.

Apology

Regrets are as useless as:
wheels on a butterfly,
wings on a bus,
ballet slippers on a giraffe.

If only:
a seagull had snatched
the words from my mouth
before they reached your ears.			

But, no—
The words burst from my mouth
like popcorn from the popper.

They did not pass through my brain,
did not pass Go,
did not collect any sanity,
	
Just slipped out like grape jelly
		from a kid-made sandwich,
never meaning to hurt,
never knowing how your heart
might hear them.

©2024 Kate Flaherty
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL