Compassion

It does not

Reach down

And dole itself out

From a distance

It walks in

And sits close

And refuses to look away

It is not nice

It is not safe

When it invites me

To put my hand

In its side

And dash my foot

On its rocks

I am afraid

Its movement

Is the labor

Of the eternal Mother

Who pushes

And tears

The veil

Between

self

and

other

Nest

photo from wikicommons

When I get home from school

Grandpa’s van is parked in the driveway

So it is an extra good day

He is waiting inside with money

For my good report card

And mom says she is making spaghetti

For dinner my favorite she says

There is time to roller skate before

I have to set the table

So I lace up my new skates the ones

With the wheels made of polyurethane

Not metal like I used to have when

I was little I am wearing my

Favorite blue dress that

Floats around my legs

And it is before I have learned to

Worry about how I look when I move

So I am just fast and free and when

A gap in the sidewalk

Sends me crashing and tears the skin

Off my knee my daddy comes running

Down the driveway and scoops me up

I sob into his shoulder because it hurts

But also I am happy because I thought

That maybe I was too big for him

To do this but I am not and

To make me feel better Timmy

Offers to let me play with his

Sizzler race track and be whatever

Color car I want

During dinner my salad with

Thousand island dressing

Feels crunchy and sweet in my mouth

As Grandpa tells the story

About when he played football

For St. Cecelia’s and a boy on the

Other team had a full red beard

And after dinner my mom lets me

Put baby Kevin in his pajamas and he kicks

His chubby legs and looks so happy

That I think when I am grown up

I want to be a mommy

And feed my kids spaghetti

And make every night

Just like

This

Breaking The Water

The waters that released you

From my body

Into this world

Had to be broken by a third party

None of us knew how

To make it happen naturally.

To begin your beginning

We had to bring in professionals

And with a stern snap

They punctured the protective membrane

That kept you suspended inside of me.

My insides, it seems,

Required outside intervention

To begin the process

Of pushing  

You out.

Yet once it began,

Your progress was linear:

To join the world,

You had to leave my womb.

There were waves of pain,

Cresting tides

Of trembling and nausea

But then

You went from being unborn

To being born,

From my womb,

To my arms.

But your second release

Seems trickier.

I have even less control

Over the waters that govern this process.

They swirl around our ankles

And shift the ground

Beneath our feet

And make me nostalgic

For the one-way itinerary

Of birthing,

How I wish now

For some outside professional

To puncture the barriers

Of dependence definitively

And release you into

Adulthood:

A break in parental waters

Resulting in your absolute autonomy.

And my role, as in the beginning,

Would be to be the only canal you need,

Rather than the occasional obstacle,

The intermittent interruption

That in your eyes

I so often seem

To be.

Enough

Celebrating Mother's Day and the upcoming Listen to Your Mother show by re-posting some of my motherhood-themed poems this week...

My sixteen-year-old boy arrived at the hospital at 6:30
that Saturday morning to sit with me.
He sat between the window and my bed, his long fingers
curled around my own IV-taped hand.
And he was beautiful,
his lanky body bent over my bed, partially
shadowed by the window-framed sun.

He had gotten up so early just so he could sit with me
before his track and field meeting at school,
but I couldn’t move my morphine-heavy
eyes and lips to talk to him.
It seemed like I should say so much,
but I could only manage a few I-love-yous and
you-don’t-have-to-stays. But he did.

I kept drifting out and tripping up in my own
bad dreams and staples and tubes. I couldn’t
quite hold myself there with him. I kept wandering,
two nights back, to my mumbling pre-surgery prayers.
And I realized I could have done better.
Instead of my weak now-and-at-the-hour-of-our-deaths
and acts of contrition, I should have just said,

Look Lord, Here Lord, I made this boy.
And that would have been enough.

Waters

Celebrating Mother's Day and the upcoming Listen to Your Mother show by re-posting some of my motherhood-themed poems this week...

I wanted to say
When I saw
Your blue eyes brim
That the waters
That flood so fast
And rush past your lashes
Are the same ones
That spill from mine
That they come
From the same stream
Of love and regret
Of grasp and release
Of swell and stab
Are the same tides
Of contracting and pushing
Of me and other
That clean
And then roil
The bonds
Between child
And mother

Scraps (NaPoWriMo Day 2)

Jeez, I can’t believe you’re so short!

You say,

As you press your nose to my forehead,

Your hands to my shoulders,

And look down at me.

I feign annoyance,

But press closer, and hope for more.

Starved as I am

For your touch—

I scramble for any scrap of attention

And am not above resorting to cheap tricks to get it,
Like buying you red velvet cupcakes from Fred Meyer
Just to have you put your arm around me and say,

Oh my God, you’re the best mom ever.

It’s pathetic, I know, but you need to understand

What you did for me:

Your birth allowed me to renew

My mommy card for a little longer--

To be assured of kisses and finger paintings

Well into my thirties—

And I am grateful.

As I watch you

Struggle to shrug me off

I know I need to remember

That none of this is your fault.

My inability to untangle

Your growing up

With the winding down
Of my motherhood

Is not your problem.

So I promise to try and suck it up

And forgive you

For no longer being

The boy who runs towards my touch,
And hugs me in front of his friends,

And whispers to me,

Mom even when I am old and married

I promise to still live with you
On weekends so we can hang out.

Demeter and Persephone

It was a hard-fought labor
that gave her life.
And so it was
her mother's right
to fight again
to bring her back
from the murk,
the seductive depths.

To call upon the gods
to restore her.

To pull her up,
to drag her out.
To insist that she re-break the waters
and remember her name.
To cajole, to whisper,
to cry out, to claim
her daughter
for the light.

It was that maternal push
to never forget
to always remind,
to wail and to rage--
to blight the crops
if need be--
that brought her daughter out,
whole and free.

So when she was restored,
she knew what saved her.

Reborn at last
to her mother's arms
and walking once more beneath the sun,
her gratitude
held her
in check.

She couldn't explain.
She didn't dare share
how the darkness touched her,
or who she was
when she was lost
down there.

Jack

From the beginning

your hands moved with the instinct

of the second born son,

first banging on me from the inside,

so I wouldn't forget you were coming.

Then reaching out in welcome,

like happy baseball mitts, clapping.

Or balled up into fists,

pushing hard against me,

while simultaneously

insisting,

on sleeping right beside me.

Your hands took no prisoners,

even in peekaboo,

but always pointed just in time

to the full blue pools of your eyes,

or the perfect curve of your dimples--

smart hands!

And they felt so right

resting in mine,

but too often I had to drag them from behind--

the plight of the second child:

never enough sleep,

never enough time.

But now your grown hands strum your guitar,

and I can't remember the last time

your hands reached

for me.

But I want you to know

that you have always had me

head over heels,

out of my mind

in love.

My hands

will always miss yours

wanting mine.