Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
March 19, 2003

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Brand new baby, nursing
from my full breast in

the crook of my elbow,
half drinking, half dreaming,

me wondering if his dad
will ever hold him. The TV on,

the whistle of a bomb, amber
and ruby raindrops fall from

the sky as I sit glued to
my brown chair. I see my husband,

easy blue eyes, pressing a
red button with his thumb

from the back seat of his
jet, releasing a missile

that could kill an enemy, or
a child. The distance from the cloud

to the ground is too great to
know what's ablaze. Is that fireball

heading for his plane? I try
to breathe but concrete

fills my lungs.
I don't know if the two of us

will be bonded to this brown chair
forever, watching the world burn.


Betsy Littrell is a whimsical soccer mom to four boys. She is working on her MFA in creative writing at San Diego State University. Her recent publications include The Write Launch, Prometheus Dreaming and The Road Not Taken. In addition, she is a journalist at KGTV and volunteers with Poetic Youth, teaching poetry to under-served elementary students.

 


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