Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Bequest for My Son

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I have reached down my throat
many times, pulled out what I could.
To make myself smaller. To scrape away
what my mom gave me.
Her gifts were not wanted.
Here, take them.
I would also give you the word teeth.
Is that too much like coal
in the stocking, throat
crafted by years
of erosion? Teeth too
have been rubbed and worn.
On a related note:
Rock. Stone. Sand. Grit. Bone.
Things that make a stream bed,
with water for linen and fold and pillow.
Fury. I give you fury, too, that
which fills the body. One minute,
you’re standing there, feeling like cake
or steam or warp. The next, after a bucket
of cold, you’re all buzz and weft.
It’s not like I have to give you these words,
which lie on the side of the road like
mud and gravel. The other day,
you announced that I had
crossed the Rubicon.
How did you get that, my boy?
Who passed you that stick?
When did you put on that armor,
bumping it onto those 13-year-old shoulders?
And why did it fit?

Louise Robertson has completed the following checklist in no particular order: Journal publications, literary and journalistic. Poetry event organizer. College degree. MFA in poetry. Slam teams. Full-length book (The Naming Of, Brick Cave Media). Trouble sleeping. Tries to be nice. Loves biking and swimming. Hates running. Does it anyway. Good at word games. Loves her two kids all the time. All the time.

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