Category — Expecting: Poetry

Dear One,

I feel like I am in a holding pattern. Waiting for you. Waiting to see your face, smooth as milk. Your almond eyes, bright as the sunset, blue.

The heat is unbearable. I spend my days finding creative ways to escape swollen ankles, upset stomach, sweaty brow.

I wish we were together, you and I. Sitting by water’s edge. My feet dipped in the shore. You, nursing. I long to know you, my dear one. The longing calls out from the bowels, deep. I feel my womb, groaning, to birth you into the world. The thought of it calls me to tears.

Believe me Dear, I have all the love in the world for you. Your eyes will be my treasure, forever. I fear ever letting you go, ever letting the world reach out its blackened hands to touch you.

I imagine your tiny fingers curled, clasping my pinky. Your gentle eyes combing my face. Pure joy. I long to meet such innocence. To meet you, my dear one. Our angel.

We are reaching out our hands. Won’t you come to meet us?

Love Mama

– July 30, 2009

Staring at items
on the table.
Which shall I move?
What’s the plan of attack?

One… two… ten… eighteen…
staring back at me.

There are too many!
Where do they live?
Finally, after too many minutes of consideration,
I declare to a single item:

“YOU: tape dispenser!
I am moving you to the office! Now.”

One item at a time.
Back and forth.
My multitasking brain now
mush.

Help. me. please. 

I am a female version of Gumby.
My hands like Jello.
Standing, clearing the table
a new ceramic bowl, now,
a thousand pieces
strewn across the floor.

At Jen’s request, I’m sharing another pregnancy poem. Much less funny but just as honest, I hope:

You, my child.

My darling child,
your hands, as webs,
reach out to touch my insides.
“Mommy, I am here.”
You knit my womb and heart
together with strings.
Your smile already my companion.

My angel,
you speak to me through your
rumblings,
coursing blood, water, tears
out from my fingertips.
I imagine your steps,
giant, small
and wonder at your nature.

I crawl, small, into my Father’s hands,
whispering thanks,
gasping for all the Love
in the world there is to give,
because you deserve it
my darling.

I imagine your face wrinkled, calm.
swimming through your
childhood, already begun.
I marvel at your daring heart,
already,
wishing nothing but hope and
promise and life -
lovely things, lovely things
for you.

You wake now, with passion
stirring like earth quakes,
as I pray.
your voice calling out
“amens”.
I can hear you saying your
yeses. saying yes to the world.

“Yes world, I am coming.”
 
i love you.  
- mama

The innie remains an innie (so far) although I am encountering depths of my belly button I’ve never seen before, my feet are swollen beyond belief, and I officially stopped wearing my wedding band as of yesterday when my mother-in-law had to wrench the piece of metal over my knuckle with dish soap and a lever made of dental floss. 

On the pregnancy note, I bring you this poem (of sorts) written in month three:

I am eating convulsively, though I find it repulsive.
It’s all I can do to sleep.
My boobs keep growing
and my nipples are SO sensitive
I scream in the shower
cowering in the corner –
hiding my chest away from
the faucet.

Yes. I am pregnant.