Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Testing

4 comments

I.
Nothing is more holy shit than the positive
on our bathroom sink. There is a feeling
beyond pleasure, beyond joy, beyond fear,
that chews me from the knees up,
and I need to lie down in the way
that I need to breathe. I bring the positive
to bed.

II.
I am finishing my thesis.
I will tell you that I dream of
my thesis defense, and of the publication
of my thesis-novel, and that sometimes,
in the shower, I hold one-sided conversations
about my novel with Oprah while I clean
body parts that seem different every day.
(My breasts, my stomach, these veins.)
I don't write as often as I need.
I sleep, I vomit, I try again tomorrow.

III.
The baby is shadows and a heartbeat,
and I want to buy a bassinet to keep
by my side of the bed. The baby looks
(according to my in-laws) like ginger root, and
(according to me) like a lava lamp, and
(according to my husband) like a baby.
There is a hard patch, now, just below
my stomach: a fluid bassinet, a grapefruit.

IV.
It is too early for snow, but I hum
in my bed with the blinds closed
to the afternoon sun--let every heart
prepare him room
--and I touch my stomach
carefully, testing, because it is so new. A promise,
a cradle, a room.


Renee Beauregard Lute’s stories, essays, and poems have appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Roar Magazine, The Northern New England Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Rhode Island with her husband and two cats, and is eagerly awaiting the birth of her first daughter, Madeline, who is due in May.


More from



My friend Sarah Nelson referred me to your poem. It is beautiful. I, too, am a poet and a mother, so I particularly identified with it. I like your indirect comparison of the baby to Christ and the line about ginger root. Very fresh, if you'll pardon the pun! Lovely poem.
Nothing much to say except I love this!
This is beautiful, Renee. It's true -- nothing is more "holy shit!" Well said.
So beautiful. And so many lovely surprises -- in the experience and in your poem.
Comments are now closed for this piece.