rising

i found the heartbeat of our daughter.
her drum raced a few beats faster than our son.
i hear them, i see them, and i touch their shadows on your skin.
it is april and the tulips are rising.

i remember holding my mother's hand on this day
6 years ago.
my finger rested on her wrist.
i held my breath and counted her every last beat.
i can still feel her pulse in my bones.

if i love, i listen.
i listen in love.
i hear life as music and music as life.

i can smell spring sliding through the windows.
will i mother as beautifully as my mother?
will i celebrate storms and sunrises the same?

"from noon to midnight and midnight to noon
there is always growth, child."

i ache to know the lives expanding within you
while i ache for my mother's voice.

these words are adrenaline for the future,
awareness of the past,
awe of this second,
now.

it is april and the tulips are rising.

cannon of love

standing three steps away
you are naked, vibrant.
your belly is exposed.

our world is now a touchable round.

i trace your curves,
gulping for my breath.
my eyes and throat burn.
i am merely water and salt,
exploding in awe.

your body holds three brains, three hearts, six kidneys, thirty toes.
every day i get to see see your skin stretch a stronger home.
i rub your head, your feet, your shoulders
imagining every cell within you feels touched.

i am not the father,
nor will i know these children moving in me.
but i am a cannon of love,
a well of hope,
a circus of imagination,
and i've never wanted anything more than this role of mother.

balance

i will never give birth
but my mother gave birth eleven times to eleven children,
and your mother will give birth one time to two children.
i have known wonderwomen.

i wonder if my mother wondered about us the way i wonder about the two of you.

who will you be?
will i be enough?
will i balance you both evenly
on my hips
in my schedule
through your first breaths
into adulthood?

i hate malls and purses,
but i love guitars and bubble baths.
whatever your fondness, i will adore you both.

you will know judaism, catholicism, buddhism, capitalism, socialism
and i will never decide what is right for you.

darling one and darling two,
practice goodness toward yourself and others
and feel part of something bigger than you.

two

i felt a snake on my forehead,
little like a worm.
i let it crawl from my head to my hand
where it slid beside the second snake,
also little like a worm.
asleep, my mind knew
these tiny two were brewing symbols
for you and you.

i saw two bunnies in the snow,
watched them wander on the white road
and whispered to your mother,  follow.
asleep, my mind knew
these tiny two were brewing symbols
for you and you.

you were simple splitting cells
but i sensed your existence
and dreamed vividly of two.

double the mothers.
double the dumplings.
double the destinies.

cell shifting

i whisper to the future
beginning in your belly.
a sonic wave of melody
solidifies safety and security.
my voice is suspended through your skin.

we sit in the cusp of change.
every cell is shifting
and tomorrow becomes more real than every yesterday.

i've moved many through long nights
but woke wanting more.

now, i am living more.

the grandfather clock grabbed me at noon.
i am half over, half begun
ready for you,
forever.

boundless blur

a heart that can will itself, will.

often will is lost
between fear filled lungs
and a moldy mind

I find you in the fog
lying in memory and now
tasting ruthless truths I bury

this life is mine
but faceless figures define
who and how I share it

the clock ticks faster
my skin gets cancer
and I struggle more than ever to leave the house

your life is yours
over
and over til it's right

chapped lips crack
chapped lips bleed
moisture is our choice

find me
in the fog
beyond the veil

this boundless blur
my heart
wills so

anomaly

I start today with a surface memory from the morning you passed.

I was supposed to get blood work. 

I was three weeks past my weekly draw.

The nurse called with ‘come in, today.’

The ‘had I gone’ doesn’t exist.

I can’t what if.

I won’t what if.

I was there

beside you

exactly where and when 

you left. 

Five years later on the hour

I am here writing words to keep you.

The truth is I was thirtysomething 

and I held your hand, often.

I didn’t think much of it, then.

I realize now what is rare.

When I was nineteen,

you held your hands above your head and danced

in a doorway in a bathrobe in a hotel in Florida.

Your grace taught me freedom.

Breastfed beyond two,

(I was the last child 

to be held and understood)

I thought I was the anomaly.

You carried twelve

delivered all naturally

loved all unconditionally 

and lived gentle into eighty,

leaving stories behind

of lives changed and healed.

Mother, you are the anomaly.