photo by Liv Bruce for unsplash
Those early, desperate days,
the weight of lead-
marrowed bones,
the throb of tender
secret-torn flesh—
the drift of lids over
stinging eyes,
and then a cry—
trying to sleep with
the fear of it,
and the fear of waking to
too-still limbs and silence.
The limbs of those days,
the pain of a new love,
the breasts filling,
the nights filling,
the desperate afternoons:
to lift them up:
to say, shield me, o holy
mystery, lift
my head,
promise to
wake me—
and her—
so that we both may rest.
Knit together my
tender flesh,
as you knit her flesh,
and lead us up out
of fatigue and fear.
We both belong
to you.
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I appreciate the honesty, the bodiliness, the fear, the love, and the faithfulness in this poem. In a culture that sentimentalizes motherhood but doesn’t respect (or want to hear about) its realities, this poem tells the truth. Beautiful. Thank you.
Beautiful
So tender and true of new motherhood. Thank you.