my sweet, small son with
so much light in his eyes
is busy wrapping small fingers
around everything he shouldn’t
and you are not here to call out that
bellowing “yo”, shake your head and
belly laugh, sip a glass of chianti
I’d snuck next to your plate.
I bet he’d stay on your lap just
a bit longer than anyone else’s.
I bet you’d have some way of
taming this small beast that
would leave us all wondering, how.
I think he’d even ask for you
when his tongue starts forming words.
I still think he’ll know to,
somehow, even with you gone –
grandpa, great grandpa, I love you.
My beautiful friend Samara reminds us that women can wear whatever the f*ck we want.
My short dress is not an invitation. It’s not a political statement. it’s not feminist; it’s not slutty. I’m not even sure it’s fashionable. My short dress is one of the only dresses I own. I’m not a ‘dresses’ kind of girl. I prefer jeans and rock tees and clothes that align my outside […]
I swear I dreamed you up and
That you are really made of starlight.
When you sleep I reach out and connect our
Constellations, just to be sure there are no kinks.
I measure the sharpness of your face and
Wonder if you will be the opposite of me:
A force, a light that others are drawn to like
I am drawn to you. Will you believe in God?
You can believe in anything you want to.
My love for you will never be measured
By your accomplishments.
I am your Mama, Beautiful boy,
long hair or short, ink on your skin,
a painted face, a red dress, on sunny days
and in a rainstorm.
Show me your teeth and your fists
And I promise, I’m your Mama then, too,
Still checking our connections.
There is no conditional love here.
I was hollow, once
just knock, knock, knock
call out and you’ll hear yourself
for days behind my ribcage.
except I’ve been building
in my quiet, novice way
dragging my tools to the
old shed out back in the rain,
plugging away in the half-light.
I call him love,
I keep him on a shelf
imperfectly painted green,
or maybe the exact shade
of some body of water from
some time I can’t really remember.
He’s by the only window, love
where the only ray of sunlight creeps in
and he grows and grows and grows
and sometimes we talk, but he’s still learning
and I know love loves me like I love him.
my son chases sunrays that filter in and
dance across our living room floor,
and my heart is heavy.
in all those late-night conversations
let’s have a child, let’s move mountains, create miracles
there was a should we? that lingered on my husband’s lips,
life, I said. it happens all around us. it stops for nothing.
not even for the darkest of days.
we still love, we still create.
we chase sunrays,
shape happiness with shaking hands
drive cars and drink wine and laugh
and laugh and laugh
and then we cry for all that we cannot change.
but then we sigh, take another sip, compose ourselves.
hug our children and whisper I love you and watch
our favorite television shows and drown out all the badness.
I touch my son’s cheek
I dream of his future
still, I regret nothing.
she spies love
like a hurricane in her thin chest.
he holds her with rough hands,
makes use of his photographic memory
when he holds her and she turns away.
but remember this, she says:
we used to love in the dark,
when love was a good sunrise,
when our bodies understood one another,
before time made us love just a little more quietly.
we still love, she says.
only this way:
with each gentle sway of our son as he falls asleep in our arms
in fingers interlocked across the console after grocery shopping
at the dinner table, covered in conversation and pureed carrots
in sighs of exhaustion and mumbled goodnights
in a damn good sunrise.
**Hi from the parent side of things!!! It’s been WAY too long….but I’m still trudging along with this chapbook and raising this absolutely amazing little boy (who is almost ONE, by the way).
I’ll try to show my face around these parts a bit more often. I hope everyone is well.
Three hundred and sixty-five days
Of life and death, my body swelling
Then returning – partially – to its original state.
All the while my insides are in a state of panic.
I bury my face in the crook of my son’s neck and
Somewhere in that small space I smell you.
He runs a fat finger across your photograph and you whisper to us.
I tell him all about you, this mythical creature, his great-grandfather.
He stares at the slow unhinging and hinging of my jaw, a mystery itself.
He smiles and I think the creases at the corners of his mouth could be yours.
You would laugh at his curiosity; you’d lift him even if you felt too sick.
If I could say it, say I believe in somewhere other than here,
I’d say you’re still sitting at the dinner table, watching the
incoordination of his small hands.
A huge thank you to those who continue to check in and follow my blog! I am still trying to balance my two loves: writing and my sweet baby boy. Of course, baby boy wins most of the time.🙂 I am also hoping to begin work on a chapbook, focused on the loss of my grandfather (just over one year ago), and the connection I feel he has to my son, who shares his birthday. I will continue to post on here, although my posts may be scarce for a while…and of course to follow along with all of you.
My friend Christy was kind enough to re-share a poem of mine, originally featured during the start-up of her page, Words for the Weekend. Please, give it a read and check out her page, Words for the Year; there are so many influential pieces waiting to be read.
I twisted into me
into knots and threads of darkened memory
like tree trunk rings or strips of film
of jagged time.
There are shards of light there
in those tied up corners
and those softened edges
of flesh and bone.
Hold me up to the sun
and study the maps
that run through my veins
they’re all places I have been.
The signs along the highway
have turned a jaded green
but I remain a brilliant
shade of transparent gold.
I can guide you at night
I can teach you
spread out on the hood of your car
one finger on some tiny destination.
I am a breathing mess of
sun down and sun up
of abandoned buildings
and new beginnings.
Find me when you’re starting over
I have been everywhere
I have grown rings
twisted into the depths of me.
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I have built a respectable home
With all the muddy flesh of motherhood.
My son nestles in and dreams with small hands
That cup the treasures on my chest – his now,
Soft and modest as they are but dripping
Liquid gold into his open, expectant mouth.
I mourn for a body that is no longer mine
Yet is strength without muscle. I run tired fingers
Along all the fullness of me and knead shapes
Into the flesh like some sort of amateur potter.
I throw words at my reflection: nourishment,
Goddess, humbled origin.
In the dark I belong to me, to my husband’s
Large hands that cup the two soft, pale things
On my chest he claims to be in awe of but I am
Heavy as the ocean once again. He hovers over me
Like molasses, whispers gentle reminders into
Every inch, every gentle curve.