Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood


What would have been perfect that day: a full sky of mammati.
Instead, as we headed west to the hospital, me pressing pain from my body,

the sky was cloudless, and clear. A haze grew around the seven o'clock sun.
Hot August, bursting with ripeness, harvesting, like my body:

a little fish, then a flippant bird, then the small slippery creature
who swam, spun, squirmed in my body.

Then bursting water, bursting blood, stars of pain, pressing pain, clenching pain,
then a baby, from my body--

thirsty nursling.
Milk bloomed on my body.

A year later, a maple seed spun into our front lawn is pressed stickily to my palm.
You grew, little visitor, said Mama--a question--then crawled away from my body.

Beth Brezenoff is a children’s book editor, a picture book writer, and an emerging poet. She lives in Minnesota with her husband, who is also a writer; their son, Sam; and their very smelly terrier, Harry.

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I think there are too many metaphors in this. Hard to follow.
i like "thirsty nursling", and the last line especially... powerful description of how it feels to have a child growing up, growing away from you. vivid poem.
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