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.