Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
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1.
At first, she was nothing to me,
nothing I could see.
Then two points collided in secret.
And through some Euclidean miracle,
two points made an indigo line
that floated to the surface of a white window plane,
a handheld compass pointing I knew not where.

2.
Then the line spread out,
and became flat images of white on static:
forehead, nose, chin,
five slight fingers,
a string of pearls,
all burned onto a scroll of paper
that curled in my hand
as I tucked her into a pocket,
folded her between two pages.

3.
Then she took on full dimension:
pressing, expanding, kicking,
until

Now we are twin spheres with one another,
plump and round, orbiting, intersecting,
as close as we will ever be
in the peculiar geometry of our lives.
But now I know, the compass points to a
Given:
She must increase, but I will decrease, someday and too soon,
become a flat photo above the fireplace, veiled by light's glare,
a flash of insight across her face.


MaryAnn McKibben Dana lives in northern Virginia with her husband, Robert, and two daughters (Caroline, age 4, and Margaret, seventeen months), with Bonus Baby on the way. A writer and minister, her work has appeared at mamazine, Literary Mama, and numerous print journals, as well as the books My Red Couch: And Other Stories on Seeking a Feminist Faith and Finding Calm in the Chaos.


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