I was rocking my child to sleep when it hit me— I am someone’s baby, too. Somewhere, my mother remembers the weight of me in her arms,
By Elena Vale10 months ago in Poets
There was a version of me before this. Before diapers and night feeds, before tiny shoes lined up by the door,
What if I’m not doing this right? I ask myself on the floor of the laundry room, halfway between mismatched socks
You finally fell asleep— after the stories, the water, the bathroom trip you insisted you didn’t need until you did.
I hid in the bathroom today. Not to cry— though that came later. Just to breathe in a room where no one was saying my name
Last night you called me Mama. Like always. Like forever. But the sound was rounder, sharper somehow— as if your voice had swallowed a year
It wasn’t when you were born. Not when you first cried or curled like a question mark against my chest. It came later—
Gloves off in the rose beds, we kneel not in prayer but rebellion— trowels scraping against the neat borders they drew
They said bring pies so we brought axes disguised as rolling pins our aprons starched white as surrender flags
Click. Click. Click. The sound of wooden needles counting stitches like casualties in a quiet war. Wool unravels between fingers
For the first time in a long time, there exists what feels like glow coming from my chest. It's hard to describe in so many words, but it's a good thing.
By BrettNotGreg10 months ago in Poets
Lesson One: How to sharpen a pencil into something dangerous. How to write your name in script so perfect
