I think you know, but please don’t mention it,
A mother under the knife cups nothing in her hands.
My prima materia is uterine rock,
Buzz Aldrin’s first words when
Above the moonlit street, wind-tossed treetops
Coriel O'Shea Gaffney
Halfway through the pregnancy, a super-blood-moon eclipsed
This emptiness is not so heavy,
being vessel, waiting to be filled.
that simmer, all days of listening
in other hands, the clasp of other
written before you were born,
where you tumbled around inside
I look upon it the way one stumbles
I have been here before, bat in hand, ready to play.
There are only the shore sounds of a water world,
Are you that? The amphibious stone form
The first glimpse
but instead confirmed my luck,
I opened a door and brought you through,
We publish poetry that has some element of the unexpected–whether it’s the language, the imagery, or the emotion—yet feels honest. Do you have a poem that acknowledges the intensity of motherhood? Read more about submitting your work here.