Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Nascence

No comments

I draw you out from the water,
feel my heat lifting from you.
It rises off, essence of months,
sloughs like a cocoon, gone.
I opened a door and brought you through,
opened this space between us:
skin on skin with infinite betweens.
I have cracked the egg-smooth stone,
brought the prisms into light.
In tourist towns they hinge them;
the stone cradle closes again and again,
the crystal rests in the belly,
brilliant and sharp, hidden, kept.
I want to close, graft you to me again,
but this air is yours now, this space.
You have flashed into the world,
light skipping from your facets.
It has seen you now, and it is yours:
the sun, the reeling sky,
the surging water, the grass,
the leaping heart, the trickle of blood,
the salt, the dirt, things broken and whole.
Every star throbbing to your pulse.
Every hinge cracked open and waiting.


Missy Rose lives and writes in the beautiful Salt Lake Valley in Utah. She spends her days caring for her six children and her nights enjoying time with her husband and attempting to approach the blank page.


More from



Comments are now closed for this piece.