Monday, May 10, 2010

Firstborn

I was not too young to be a mother, but
too young to know how to do anything but love.

It was the day earth connected to heaven
by a female thread, and when it detached, she was mine.

Hours old, the kindly nurse said, it's ok, open the blanket,
unwrap your baby, look at your daughter.

I saw the blush of birth on her skin, pearls
in her fingernails, and sapphires in her eyes.

The trees outside were greening while we were away
in that secluded time spent out of time.

Twenty-nine years later I see birth stories on tv
and feel the bulge of my belly, the tenderness of translucent skin,

the tiny burst of blood vessels. I hear a baby cry
and my breasts tingle and pull and expand.

I buried my old life and she grew into my surviving,
and in my oblation I loved her the best I could.

1 comment:

Kathiesbirds said...

Oh how I love this poem! I so identify with that connection, that feeling of my breasts still tingling and swelling though mine are all grown and gone also. How can anyone describe what it is truly like to be a mother? You have done it very well.