first(born) love

The typical culprits
tend to pass me by:
I laughed on the first day
of kindergarten,
smiled at all the birthdays,
and shook my head
over each box of too-small
clothes I stacked in
the garage.
But last night on the boat
in the bright hour between
sunset and dusk
with a full moon over
calm water,
the weight of your
head on my shoulder
pricked my eyes
and dropped down heavy
into my mother-heart.
Around your life-jacket
my arms felt small, short
like my days as the
queen of your little boy-heart.
The milestones will surely keep
coming; but, oh my sweet son,
the little moments
I will keep for us.

fruits and other four-year-old questions (11 weeks)

What is it now, Mommy?
Is it still a jelly bean?
Is it a grape now Mommy?
Mommy, will you tell me when it gets to be a dinosaur?
I can't wait until it's a dinosaur.
Mommy, what's a kumquat?
Can I kiss your belly, Mommy?
Mommy, I love you.

[mid-June 2012]

week eight

Bursting to tell
busting a button
busy and buttoned-up.
Keep mum,
mum's keeping,
hoping it's for keeps.

[early June 2012]

i think of you

I think of you
often, sister friend --
longing, waiting,
or no longer able
to wait long.
I am full
where your
emptiness aches
and we count weeks
in unison
(but not really).
You cried happy tears
for me
drawn from a
deep well of grief,
and I winced at your hug.
I am sorry.
There is not much
more to say,
except that I
see you,
I remember you.
You are beautiful.

week seven haiku

I am two kinds of sick,
but still five kinds of happy:
I like those numbers.

six weeks

We don't talk about it,
except to ourselves --
even then only in the
hypothetical --
which makes it feel all
the less real.
Stranger still, I feel
perfect. Not even a twinge.
I would swear we made
the whole thing
up if I didn't have
a featherweight
flutter of hope
in my gut.

[mid-May 2012]