Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
so much deepens

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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).


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