Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
A Good Day

No comments

Are you aware outside the sun yawns? These minutes of dawn
anticipate the world: breakfast, the shoes, transport, money—
all things linear before noon.

Bubbles never hurt:
the round outer skins, how the hand slips in, the tight gasps
of a dozen pops, the slow slide of a plate

and skin on skin, I have the run of his leg, his foot on my lips;
he gets a clean bottom and I get his eyes, recognition of
him in me, of me in him

and later, just for a moment, I close my eyes, pretend I am walking
through forests heavy with unfallen rain rising green on the trees
and then I lie among grass and bugs and I sleep, and I sleep

until I strip garlic smooth and bare then chop
only stop to lick my fingers
pretend I am cooking for God

then, when the sun is gone, only darkness will clothe us
as we shrug off the day with thundering shudders;
nothing more than tiny aftershocks of ancient earthquakes,
quakes we bear, quakes we hold.


Heather Taylor Johnson is an American Australian, living in Adelaide with her three children, partner, and dog. She is a published novelist and poet; her fourth collection will be published by Five Islands Press late 2016. She is the poetry editor of Transnational Literature and is currently editing the anthology The Fractured Self: Poetry of Chronic Illness and Pain.


More from



Comments are now closed for this piece.