Poetry: so much deepens

so much deepens

by Kelly Lundgren Pietrucha

it was the red wheel
barrow that
started it, and also the chickens, because
so much depended
upon them.

we were busy — summer afternoons — with such
images, imaginations
and forgot to remember: war, genocide, famine.
until september, when our first child
was born
and my husband said
to me: it’s such great responsibility.

and then: it deepens, you know

34 dead today in baghdad

so i got rid of the chickens
in my fridge, because i was tired
of such live protein, and all its
trappings.
our
wheelbarrow
has been gone for months now,
lent to a neighbor, or
friend.

in other parts of the country people have grown tired of neighbors; they want
a fence, a gun, a 401K.

we’re so
worried about the growth of
our nuclear family.
it folds
itself into the marrow of our bones, this
fear.

34 dead today in baghdad

i sigh and cradle my
baby, and feed him milk from
a cow, not my breast, because
i am not as efficient as i thought i was, not
nearly as independent.

Kelly Lundgren Pietrucha is a mother, teacher, and writer (almost always in that order). Her fiction has appeared in Carve, Pindeldyboz and Fiction Attic; this is her first poetry publication. Kelly lives in New Jersey with her husband Mark, two-year-old son Jude, and dog Charley (not always in that order).




Read the Introduction Recent Poetry Ethan and Lily, After School Mom Art so much deepens pieces of a liquid puzzle Skating with Tropes Ogunquit Learning to Paint at Age 45 Phases Tangled Seraphim Archives Poetry Archives E-zine Don't have time to check for updates? Let us come to you! Click here to subscribe or unsubscribe to the Literary Mama E-zine. Literary Mama About Us Submissions Contact Privacy Policy Literary Mama Bookshop Literary Mama Gear Powered by Movable Type 3.16	Poetry « pieces of a liquid puzzle \| Back to Poetry \| Mom Art » so much deepens by Kelly Lundgren Pietrucha it was the red wheel barrow that started it, and also the chickens, because so much depended upon them. we were busy — summer afternoons — with such images, imaginations and forgot to remember: war, genocide, famine. until september, when our first child was born and my husband said to me: it’s such great responsibility. and then: it deepens, you know 34 dead today in baghdad so i got rid of the chickens in my fridge, because i was tired of such live protein, and all its trappings. our wheelbarrow has been gone for months now, lent to a neighbor, or friend. in other parts of the country people have grown tired of neighbors; they want a fence, a gun, a 401K. we’re so worried about the growth of our nuclear family. it folds itself into the marrow of our bones, this fear. 34 dead today in baghdad i sigh and cradle my baby, and feed him milk from a cow, not my breast, because i am not as efficient as i thought i was, not nearly as independent. Kelly Lundgren Pietrucha is a mother, teacher, and writer (almost always in that order). Her fiction has appeared in Carve, Pindeldyboz and Fiction Attic; this is her first poetry publication. Kelly lives in New Jersey with her husband Mark, two-year-old son Jude, and dog Charley (not always in that order).