Overdue

Late for her
is right on time,
she is in no hurry.
Safe, protected,
warm and fed,
what has she
to worry?
Awaited child you
have your way,
we'll be ready and
thankful:
The One who made you
knows your days,
and He is ever faithful.

post-advent not post-partum

Advent is over,
Mary had her baby,
but I'm still pregnant:
full, expectant,
unseasonable.
We do still
wait together for the
Second Advent,
of which no one knows
the hour...
I suppose I'm
not so out-of-season
after all.

already

You don't know how
to smile yet,
but make us smile
every day.

Your lungs have never
filled with air,
and still you take my
breath away.

Your well-knit form,
a hidden gift,
reveals our Maker's
loving way.

As yet unborn,

but you are
no less powerful for it.

epiphany child

The sixth of January,
Epiphany,
great feast of light,
a day for what has
until now been largely
hidden to be
unveiled --

and my due date.

It fits, as my
three little kings
watch eagerly,
waiting for treasures
long in darkness
to be brought forth
in light.

May it be so
with you, my daughter,
my little star.
May you come to be
a lamp uncovered,
a story shared
with those who have
not yet heard,
a glowing manifestation
of Christ's bright glory,
an epiphany.

35 weeks

I don't wish it
away this time,
like everyone assumes
we next-month
mothers must:
"Are you just dying?"
they ask with
pinched face and
sympathetic wince.
No.
I am tired, yes.
I am tired, and grouchy,
and uncomfortable.
But I am alive
with life,
full and filled up
in a way I may
never know again.
So I will open myself
to all of it:
as many
shallow-breathed
days and pillow-tower
nights as I am given
to nurture
to hold
to house and grow
this abundant life,
this bursting blessing.

hibernation preparation

The squirrels and I
are stocking up,
a bit rounder each day,
tucking away
by instinct
for the coming change.
We store and gather,
prodded by
a bone-deep knowing:
Winter will come.
Then we who have
scurried will be still,
sink down,
settle fast and firm
into the dark
that brings life.

first release

Today it is true
for the first time:
You can live without me.
Doctors, machines,
lights and wires,
yes --
me, no.
And so begins
the series of small
releases,
the slow, beautiful
daily deaths of
being a mother.

liturgy in utero

Cheek to belly pressed,
he speaks his sister
blessings,
the little priest.
A litany of baby love
he sings into the dark,
a brother monk.
"Big, strong baby girl!"
his final benediction:
Alleluia and amen,
my prophet son.

quickening

I felt you move this morning.
Me still in bed,
still and quiet
while you rolled and spun,
stretching and testing
your warm dark home.
Your brothers do this too:
spin, roll, and test
while I am trying to rest --
you fit in already.
Do you know how
happy you have made me?
Even if this is all
we share
(I have learned
to take nothing for granted)
it is enough.

[mid-July 2012]

interwoven

By law, only one of us
is granted 'personhood'
(as though it were
the law's to give)
but who could separate us
without breaking both?
Interdependence
is a dirty word in some circles,
and yet it is the mystery that sustains
both host and guest:
We are two and one.

[early July 2012]

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]

week five

God of the big wild world
Be small.
Dive down into the ball of cells,
the miracle,
the deep magic,
and make your mark.
Look with love
and mercy on this tiny
coil of tight-sprung
life. Glory--
all glory to You.

[early May 2012]

happy secret

We hold a happy secret,
you and I.
As yet invisible,
imperceptible
except as two thin
purple lines.
Soon this secret will
most likely make me sick-
but not like other
secrets might-
a healthy sick (there is
such a thing).
We hold it now,
like a butterfly lit
on our open hands:
awe-struck.

[early May 2012]