Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood


The fetal body breaks loose
becomes a little boat
tethered to a harbor of machines.

Doctors say the hearts
of these children whisper-tick
like doll hearts: inconsistently.

Death can come as a whisper
blown across the cheek.

He will always be frail.

He has his father's
un-feathered skin
and the bones of birds
that were my visitors
during a trimester of sleep.

Born to fit in my purse,
he is one singing coin
among many.

Clare L. Martin is a poet/mother/wife and graduate of the University of Southwestern Louisiana. Clare’s creative writing has appeared in Inch, Eclectica Magazine, The Dead Mule, Wheelhouse Magazine, Blue Fifth Review, Clean Sheets, Press1, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry, among others. She is the mother of a teenage daughter and a son, Adam, who passed away in 2004.

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so beautiful and and so sad at the same time, thanks for sharing this piece.
Clare, this is lovely and heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing your beautiful words here. I'm so sorry for your loss.
Lovely, Clare.
Thank you all so much and to Literary Mama for publishing this poem. I come back to it from time to time. My son, the inspiration for this poem, is always on my mind. He died in 2004.
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