Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Waiting, at 30 weeks

No comments

The mixing bowl, dry with abrading dough,
Is soaking while I wash the oatmeal pot.
The residue of grain, congealed, is slow
To gather at the threshold with the clot
Of spent tea, poached egg edges, cranberries
Saved five months in the freezer, yet too soft
Upon defrosting. Murky waters ease
Into the drain beyond the sunken croft,
Bizarrely colorful, yet fetid with
Its barren yield not fit for compost. You
Might squeeze into the world alive, not whole,
Your mind a rind, no juice or pulp, just pith,
They tell me. Nothing they or I can do.
So what. I fiercely scrub the scaly bowl.


Libby Maxey lives in rural Massachussetts with her husband and two young sons. With her academic career as a medievalist having died a stunningly swift death by childbirth, she now works as an editor, writes poetry, reads when able, and sings with her local light opera company. Her work has appeared in The Mom Egg Review, Off the Coast, Tule Review, Crannóg Magazine, Mezzo Cammin and elsewhere.


More from



Comments are now closed for this piece.