Posts Tagged ‘motherhood’

The color
of grape Kool-Aid;
purple with swirling blue.

Umbilical cord tight
around his neck,
he strangled
with every contraction.

Heart rate dropped
so perilously low,
a pediatrician was called
to be on hand…
Just-In-Case.

Pushing then swoosh
there he was,
my blue baby.

They removed
the cord from his neck,
and handed him to his father.
I stroked his face;
the same color as my nail polish.

Suction of fluid from lungs
then oxygen followed
until he grew pinker,
more human.
Still, a bloody little thing
always held by someone else.

I felt no sense of attachment.
Just crushing weight of responsibility;
knowing he was mine
completely,
at for least 18 years.

I didn’t want to get too close,
terrified by my year-old nephew’s
repeated clinical deaths.
I spent the night awake,
trying to devise ways
to make a break for it –
despite the pain.

Morning came
I was still there,
unable to figure out
how to flee into the darkness;
leave him to his father,
my mother…anyone
but me.

Then,
around the corner;
a clear acrylic bin.
I looked in –
my fatal error.
I never looked back again.

He was mine.
My child.
The one I’d waited for.
I loved his little turtle face,
strange mewling sounds,
his smell.

Through the years,
there were problems.
Bad lungs kept me afraid
that I’d lose
the only thing that mattered.

A sweet child,
beautiful, charming.
He always had that gift.

Then pre-teen,
cocky, sullen
but sometimes mine
again, at night.
I would read to him
or sing
and he would forget
that he was not a mama’s boy;
nestle into the crook of my arm.

Teenage years
spent learning how
to kill with his bare hands:
martial arts
obsessed.

Now he’s an adult.
I look back
on years
that went too fast.

All the changes
all the chances
I had to make a difference.
I messed up
most of them.

He has no need,
now, for a mother.
He wants me far away.
He’s just a cold stranger
but I love him, anyway.

If you were to ask me
what he wanted
where he lived,
or how he felt,
I could give you general answers,
gleaned from other sources.

My own son
is as alien to me
as any stranger on the street.

Looking at his baby books,
I pause at this page,
and that. Remember favorite pastimes.
They’re all past time, now.

All I have is memory
of the son I brought to earth.
Cherished as well as I was able
then let go, at his request.

People say
he loves me.
But I know it isn’t true.
He wants me to disappear
as much as I want to.

Embarrassed
by me; my scars,
my insanity;
by that fact that I exist

I am embarrassed too,
for loving him as much as I do
when I’m simply a source
of shame for him,
my former Little Boy Blue.

Ty and Dayne

14 months too little,
like a younger brother;
always hoping
to catch up
but, this year,
you will.

Grief floats out
on every exhale
as you try to un-speak
that yearly wish –

To eat
the evidence
like cold hard dirt
covering your cousin;
bring him back to life.

“I’m sorry”
isn’t a magic spell.
Your childhood wish
didn’t kill him.
He chose that fate,
himself.

You will be older,
he will be dead.
And nothing on earth
can change that.

I may not be that great,
but the cat likes my lap
and my dog follows
wherever I go.

I am the favorite aunt
to all my nieces and nephews,
and my son is a great kid
who loves me.

I may not be that great
but I am enough.
Opinions of small lives
matter most –
It’s through the helpless
that God’s light shines,
and it shines on me every day.

I may not be that great,
without a real job.
I may never be wealthy,
but I am rich in what matters.

I count to several someones
who all count to me.

Written in 2004

Fireworks . Pictures, Images and Photos

Brilliant flash;
a purple nebula,
quickly blurs to white,

traced on the sky
like a spider’s web.

Color races over wet ground,
receding just as quickly,
bright lights fade away.
Ebb and flow of a neon wave,
exploding at our feet.

There is peace, despite the booms,
despite the smell of smoke.
Perhaps derived from memories:
childish delight in bright colors,
new smells, cool grass.

Explosions rocket across the sky
spiraling up in plumes of smoke.
I sit barefoot on the cement stairs,
arm around my son.

He deserves this memory:
A sky colored with lights like a present
and a warm arm around his waist.

(1998)

 

In the white bellow
I see him
wrapped tight around our son,
swaying to the dance
of dark raindrops.
Lightning gouges;
ice-pick sharp
and night
sucks into the wound.

After spilling gutters clear
and beaten trees drop leaves
he climbs in beside me, his cold
bristles against my legs;
the baby, a warm comma between us.
The only wind now
is the sound of our breathing
and I sink, like a stone, into sleep.

Mother Love

Posted: May 9, 2010 in My Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Cool hand on forehead,
smoothing back of hair.
Low sweet voice of lullabies
melting in the air.

To be sick is not as painful
with a mother there.

Slick brown chest of muscles
where none have been before.
You are not my son.
You have moved beyond.
You are someone sullen; cocky –
Restless to be you.
Demanding freedom to grow up.
Pulling away from me.

But, at night,
sometimes,
you are mine again;
folding into the crook of my arm
as I sit on your bed and sing.
Your blonde head,
a stunning replica
of my little boy’s.

What I’m grateful for has changed
dramatically since you died.
I am grateful for odd things
most people never think of.

I count it as a blessing that you
chose to kill yourself where you’d
be easily found; that the method
you used wasn’t bloody,
but just as sure and swift.

I am grateful for the time I had with
your body, while you were still
the “you” I love, and not some awful shell.

I thank God that the coroner could see
the cause of death and did a “visual autopsy”,
rather than cut you apart.
I’ve seen autopsies before and never want
anyone I love to go through that.

When you were cut up,
it was to give pieces of yourself,
so other people might have the life
you were so burdened by.

Somewhere, people rejoice,
while we cry.
Blind can see now,
because of your eyes.
Somewhere your heart beats,
healthy.

I am grateful I was there,
at your birth,
as well as your death –
to welcome you,
then say “goodbye”.

I love that I really knew you;
that you weren’t a casual acquaintance,
but as if you were my other son
and for 24 sweet years I had you.

Most of all, I am grateful
that it hurt so many people
when you took your life,
because it meant that you had
lots of love while it mattered.

I only wish your illness
would have
let you see how much.