Sunday, May 9

happy mother's day

i sent my mom these poems i wrote, inspired by her
in hopes that she doesn't notice that i forgot to mail a card


*the first one is a sestina: a 6 stanza poem with 6 lines each, plus a 3 line envoy at the end. the main point of it is the repeating end words, which have a certain order.
*the second one is an acrostic poem - which is when the first letter of each lines spells out a word


Ma

Don't tell me you weren't happy for 
a reason to ditch that gray womb 
of your cubicle that Friday morning. 
You said you knew it was time 
but I think you were just saying 
that, 'cause I was two weeks early– 

–the last time I was early
for anything. It took thirty six hours before
they went in to get me, you said.
They sliced me out of that sauna of a womb
with cold metal, but you still said I did it on my time,
two o'clock on a Saturday afternoon.

I guess I just like that time of day – Remember our afternoon
walks down Main Street on Sundays, after the early 
mass? And don't think I'll forget all the times
it was still dark out when I'd wake for 
school, and you'd wake too, from the goose-down womb
of your comforter, because you couldn't sleep, you said

and I knew that wasn't true, but I said
nothing, because you poured better cereal. At night,
you'd wrap me restless in your nest, your womb
of limbs, and I’d lay there into the early
hours of a Monday morning, back before
I knew how to make myself fall asleep–a simpler time.

I had a habit of acting like you were wasting my time
and even I'm impressed with all the cruel words I could say.
You had a habit of loving me anyway, for
I was a part of you once, I guess that's why. You'd kiss me goodnight
on a Tuesday through my ice block walls, then I'd wake up early
to make you breakfast, a sorry attempt to fill your wounded womb

on Wednesday. Oh, to crawl back into your womb
where I can float the day away, kill time
the way we all did once, in our earliest
hours, inside the safe walls of our mother's body. I'd say
good morning with a gentle kick, and you'd whisper goodnight
with your hands on our walls. What did I leave for?

August will be here soon, and in the womb of a summer night
–the warm early hours of the second Thursday–I say we have a toast just
 for us, to twenty one years since that lazy afternoon when I took my time.




Somewhere


Standing on a naked tree limb sprouting 

out of a grassless knoll–two still robins
make eye contact–They are sick
engulfed in some sweeping illness
wrapping their tiny lungs–They stare silent for
hours–the only sound a heavy autumn wind
Evening comes to tuck the earth beneath a blanket of frost
Red breasts burn in the cruel air–one robin whispers to the other
even if I'm lost in the dead of winter I'll remember you




 in central park this past winter with my mom,
whose favorite bird is the robin

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