Truth Becomes Her

At what age did I decide
the man in the moon was
Shadows and craters or
Dandelions only make allergies
And not wishes?
Or that I would make it
across the bridge
Past the cemetery
Regardless if my breath held or not?
What age defying lotion
Or retinol youth serum can I use
To remove the dark spots and
wrinkles of reality
So I can point up to the sky
And whisper in my daughters ear
About green cheese and
Moon rabbits and
Silver dollars and
Be able to swear it’s all true?
      • A.M. (2018)

buoy

i’ll never tell you, my darling
i don’t think i should —
is it fair of me to put the pressure on you?
i don’t think so.
i don’t think you’d be happy to know
simply by your being here
(with your sticky hands
and your gummy smile
and your unruly curls)
you have saved my life every day
this year.

the habit i’ve hidden for 23 years
i am finally able to stop
because how can i mar the skin
that now covers you?

still hearing voices but
i start ignoring them now
because how can i believe lies
when i owe you the truth?

still chanting mantras
but silently
because how can i speak cruelty
when i owe you mercy?

so much pressure
for such a little love
but you don’t need to do anything
and when you find this when you’re older
know it doesn’t change anything —
you simply are the buoy
i never knew existed.
of all purpose i could have
it’s an honor to be the dark ocean
that keeps you afloat.

Preemie Mom

On August 28th I write a note
in my phone
Reminding me that I need a new depo shot
In November.
then I collect my things
And leave the hospital.

There is no bow on my door
Announcing my daughters arrival
There is no cooing baby in the cruelly empty bassinet
My breasts ache from pumping that
Comes so easily to other mothers
But simply leaves my nipples bruised and and me in tears.

While I get to leave in a wheelchair
it isn’t the ecstatic cliche shown in movies.
The nurses and doctors are busy when
I go by –
Suddenly finding urgent paperwork
Or entering charts into the system.
No one says good luck to me.
No one tells me congratulations.

my id bracelets and my prescriptions are the only evidence
that proves that I belong on the maternity ward.
My body is sore from the trauma of birth
I am wearing a diaper to collect the ochre
bruises decorate my arms and hands like watercolor tattoos,
angry and yellow and purple.

26 hours of endless nurses parading in and out,
Chiding me for crying,
Taunting me into pumping my breasts for an infant
that isn’t able to breathe on her own,
Doctors explaining all the different ways
She might die this hour –
All refusing to use her name,
All refusing to make a connection with her.

This moment that I have dreamed of,
That would have been so different 14 weeks later,
that would have gone as planned
is shattered.

I remember the nurse teaching me how to deliver
while i was delivering
teaching me how to breathe.
it reminds me to cancel my prenatal classes
those all-important first-time parent classes
that would teach me the secret vocabulary
of motherhood, so i could finally get the jokes
i was told for so many years.
I wish she could teach me how to breathe now.

I try to block out the look of pity
the OB gave me when he told me
there wasn’t any way of stopping this
the baby was coming, right now, sorry,
lets hope the shots worked.

Even though the epidural has worn off I am still numb.
My husband tries to help me in the car,
He grazes his fingers across the wedding rings he gave me
He smiles at me
“She’s a fighter, she’ll be home before we know it”
But he still can’t invoke her name
The tongue twists like the wires snaking into her belly button
Mechanically keeping her alive.

Only hospital issued flannel blankets adorn her incubator –
No pink crocheted afghans nor frilly coming home outfits.
Just a diaper that goes to her knees
And the smallest earmuffs to keep her brain from bleeding
The only proof she is there is me,
Weeping next to her,
Willing her to ignore this hour’s death sentences,
making a lifetime’s worth of apologies as the time passes,
wondering when i’ll be allowed to hold her hand.

a mother’s reward

The way your face lights up when your mobile comes on at 4:37 am
The feeling of comfort I get as you run your small hands over my neck and chest
Trying to find the perfect spot
The coos you make as you rub your forehead
Across mine,
Back and forth meshing the hair of our shared widows peaks
The guttural giggles as we play the same game
Over and over
That you never tire of
The excitement that you cannot contain
When you see your daddy
Which causes you to kick your legs uncontrollably until he’s holding you
and your hand laces
Deep into his beard
Letting you snuggle in, with nothing but joy etched in your smile.