Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
After

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She was born, when time had stretched like a muscle, contracted and hung, contracted and hung, a muscle there in the air, I saw I had lost my voice, bled it out, let it fall, held its strange small hand.

I can't stop saying I'm sorry. I can't stop saying oh god. Oh god.

There should've been music, or at least musicians, set up near the radiator or the bathroom door. I would've liked violins, I think. I can picture the gleam of the polished birch, the reflection of the stain, how it wants and speaks.

I'm sorry. I had forgotten to say.

Even now, I can't remember the faces. I can't remember the women who took my voice or the blood that carried it away. There were two girls with mops. This is later, though. They said nothing. They went blind when they scrubbed by the bed and I couldn't find their eyes.

 


Callista Buchen is the recipient of the Langston Hughes Award and the winner of the DIAGRAM essay contest. Her poems have appeared in Thrush, Arsenic Lobster, Bellevue Review, Blue Mesa Review, Pear Noir!, and other journals. She is a PhD candidate at the University of Kansas.

 

 


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beautiful, stark, raw. i'm sorry, too x
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