Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Motherhood

2 comments

My parents want grandkids.
They've been dropping hints like
When are you going to give us
grandkids?
I get it.

They've got wooden blocks
in a barrel. They long to hold
the smooth edges again, make
a train track to Uzbekistan,

a tower to the moon. Pete Seeger's
cued up, the actual record,
all around the kitchen cockadoodle
doodle do. The way I used to.

I picture myself with a son--
six years old in plastic boots.
Let's make them yellow.
He has cinnamon sugar still on his skin.

He takes my hand in an April rain.
I stamp. He stamps twice.
We giggle down the sidewalk, swing
our arms and sing nonstop.

He wades into cattails and skunk cabbage.
Burrowing, his blue windbreaker barely
crowns the earth's detritus.
I don't call. I don't wait. I walk away.


Deborah Bacharach’s work has appeared online in The 2River View, Blood Orange Review, Plop! Review, and Rattle. You can also find her work in New Letters, The Antigonish Review, Cimarron Review, and Calyx, among many others. She lives in Seattle with her partner and two children. Please visit her website for more information.


More from



that's one of the best poems i've read in years.
Thank you so much!
Comments are now closed for this piece.