I cradle you

As the moon cradles the evening star,
I cradle you.
My babe who gives no judgement to names,
who knows not of suffering or pain,
who came still, yet breathing, during rain.

In the evening, I lull Scarborough Fair,
soft lashes fall, rose cheeks and oat-soaked skin,
lips puckered to grin, tongue rocking
as I rock to sustain your life.

I gather you and lie sleeping,
our breath still one,
You carry me softly
back to where we came from,
back to where we all were before we are born,
Like the moon cradles the evening star
I cradle you.

Happy Birth Day Wish

I wonder
Will i always cry for you on your birthday
Like i did the day you were born blue and pudgy, not breathing
Your hands balled, legs frozen,
Not a kick?

I spoke to you across the room
Asking you to please stay with us,
We love you so much already,
As they pumped air into your tiny trying lungs.

Your dad stood by your side,
Never losing sight of you as
Dr. Wolfe stitched me up,
trying to stop the bleeding.

I could only feel ecstasy
as the cord between us quickly severed,
not knowing of the whole new level
of pain being a mother would bring
for years to come.

Your blessed soul stays with us,
your memory still overcomes this happy wish
As we weep to remember the day
a son to us was born.

Kisses

I cook.
I clean.
I wash
and rinse,
and wipe,
and hug,
and carry,
and the kisses never stop.

I smoke occasionally,
gripping tightly to the cigarette of my sanity
exhaling the heartache to dive and windsail,
lips longing.

I cry between naps, 
pray as they fall into sleeps
of good dreams,
of true love.

I bite my bleeding lips.
I clutch my clothes
as they continue to fall
head first
in,
to experience reality.

I hold my breath at times,
for fear my leaving will
cause the wailing only
darkness knows.

I eat small bites
between their smiles and their tears. I
trust noone to tell them their truth.
I paint their names on spaces,
making comfort and room where ere’ they go,
as toys are thrown at me again and again,
but the kisses never stop.

We clap.
We sing
and speak languages
only mothers and babies know.

My shirt drenched in snot, slobber, and vomit.
Pants stained with blood and piss.
You say I am a bad mom
as you walk out on us weeping,
leaving a trail of pieces that will
cut and scar us
for lifetimes.

But the kisses never stop.

to birth

Oh man to the feeling of
a baby coming out of you
while you crunch on a honeycrisp apple smothered in peanut butter and wonder
if you will be angrier this time.
Will your partner laugh as you squeal
operatic tones cascading from
what is only the pain of life,
while the clown nurse with blue eye shadow
and ruby red lips asks again if
I want to see the human head
stretching out the final ounce
of virginity I have left
from between my shuttering legs?
Will the little blue and red body
laid upon my breast be mine this time
or will he be stolen for half a day
and pricked and prodded and given artificial
air and bath and food and love
from women who didn’t
writhe and vomit and cry him into existence?
Oh man to the feeling
of a baby coming out of you
and onto this bright and damned earth.

sun

always how would it feel to go on without yous
trimming delicately the worth of self like caspari
or doilies tapering grace on slender night stands. 

the japanese beetles,
black widows surround your faith,
the opossums suck the stomach and eat your brain,
life goes on. 

all that is done is done. 
the sun.