Delicate but potent, grown in the Bohemian’s garden.
Enough to Make You Cry
Delicate but potent, grown in the Bohemian’s garden.
Addendum to the Absurd Appointment
I don’t usually explain my poems.
Fewer words, no explanation necessary. These are aspects of poetry I appreciate.
Yet it feels as though a few more choice sentences want to follow The Absurdly Beautiful Appointment– a post from a few days ago, inspired by the experience of motherhood.
We all came from Her. Some of us will one day be (or currently are) Her. Each journey unique with common threads.
Myself, I steep daily in the essence of this vast maternal task. Living, wondering, resisting and embracing all of it.
If my poem expressed that mothers are “filled with an endeavor that cannot be given real words,” I’m not sure what I’m doing here in Addendumland trying to further elucidate the unspeakable.
Maybe, you the reader, already got all of this:
That impregnable darkness. It surrounded me when I called upon the saints to assist in delivering my son. Neither atheism nor enlightenment was born of that abyss. Though I was granted a healthy baby, fresh into my arms, my heart filled with hopeful questions.
There is the new mother I know. Set upon a lonely path of living with the father that doesn’t want to be one. Bestowed upon them, a seven pound bundle of purity embodied. A soul housed in a home of shadows and anger. She rests by her mother’s heart, beating with both the greatest joy and deepest disappointment.
And there is every mother’s fear. One that sentences can only stumble through. The heart-searing loss of a child. Hers was only three years old. Death’s blanket hung upon her, though Life insisted she keep breathing. She walked with pain so deep and tender, it hurt to have another touch her skin.
You see, some of these are the mother stories never told.
Though there is beauty, too.
The vulnerable glistening of low tide waters on a mother seal and her baby, resting in morning sun. Their bodies gently rocking in the softest ocean waves.
Or the night when I am witness to the wonder. Firelight in darkness. My boy jumping with his dreams under the stars, whispering wishes near my face with sweet abandon. He wants me to live forever.
And I love this love. And I know I’ll die (this seven-year old does, too, in his own way). I can only embrace the beauty of the moment, bittersweet with understanding that all things change.
Shafts of light dance rainbow prisms in the same room where darkened corners house unknown treacheries. This is the heart of a mother.
You may see her busy about town, though she is often quiet about what it is she’s holding in her chest. Because, of course, how could words describe it? And when would the time be right to tell you?
She’s herding children, running errands, checking off her list. Making sure she meets her appointment.
The Absurdly Beautiful Appointment
mother bodies arc
forming thresholds
that cannot
hold
the immensity
of life
and death
we are but vessels
through which
the deepest pain
and greatest joy
seep and surge
a woman deep
in labored birthing
is asked to call upon the Gods
plea for help in delivering
her baby
though every name
of every saint
she knows is uttered
as she bears down
she merely slips
into a darkness
filled with
nothing
and there is another
the newest mother
her gift
of angelic perfection
swaddled in pink
less than seven pounds
with sweetly wrinkled
fingertips
fresh from the watery womb
now here
in the air
she needs everything
but her house
has a father that stays out late
spits insults in the kitchen
and a mother
who leaks tears
as she is nursing
oh, and there are, too
those written words
that call
from the other side
of grievous pain
one mother’s loss
of her son
not yet four
she is being asked
to hold the burn of searing flames
to the deepest place
within her heart
and still walk
among the living
“seals may bite”
is the sign
at the trailhead
warning of an
“extremely protective mother”
almost extinct
completely defenseless
monk seals
mother and child
loll in low tide
at the far end
of the quiet beach
the small baby
close
one flipper
resting gently
on its mother’s belly
basking
in the sun
in another place
it is night
and he is illuminated
by firelight
and the inspiration
of seven years
culminating to this moment
of making wishes
in whispers
close to his mother’s face
heart’s desires
carried on hopeful breaths
scented sweet with jelly beans
and all things
possible
he gasps
“I wish that the sky would rain hot dogs
that you would live forever
and never die”
we are mothers
living portals
standing passages
for
all
to sieve through
life
death
everything
nothing
and yes
even
the profoundly undefined
it’s everyday
as our hearts curve
around
our absurdly beautiful appointment
we pass you
on the street
filled with an endeavor
that cannot be given
real words
though we hold our lists
buying broccoli
at the corner store
and saying
‘thank you’
when given
change
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