Labor

I’ve always wanted a daughter

like my mother had me,

Because birth is an illustrious pain,

so I want to make it count.

She will have my eyes, his nose,

a fierceness all her own,

And this will threaten the other girls

who hide insecurities.

Notoriously ruthless creatures, girls,

but she won’t be devoured.

I hope she has more conviction than I

ever did, assurance to say

No when she’s offered her first line

of heroin, to walk away

From the boy who calls her Love

as he punches through

The plaster over her shoulder,

to come to her mother,

The copper taste of fear on her tongue,

When she’s two weeks late.

But she won’t, because the line must be

crossed, the boy must be

Saved, and the secret floats lighter

than the burden of shame.

They warn little boys, be careful of little girls

who will break your heart,

But they never tell the mothers this,

the mothers who won’t know

Better until their out of body vulnerability

is wrapped fresh in their arms.

So I want to make it count, giving birth,

because of the pain,

But I never want a daughter knowing

that my mother had me.