motherhood poetry
-
all four of them are finally dreaming, and the house,for once,has stopped asking things of me. no cups to fill.no blankets kicked away.no little voices callingmomfrom somewhere down the hall. just silence—soft,strange,almost holy. and me,with a headache bloomingbehind my eyeslike a stormthat waited politelyuntil everyone elsewas safe. I should sleep. I know I should. but…
-
I used to thinkhome was a place— four walls,a locked door,laundry folded badlyon the back of the couch,toys multiplying overnightlike some tiny plastic curse. But I know better now. Home is this. A boy with messy hairand a grin too big for his faceholding his baby sisterlike she has always belongedinside the circle of his…
-
For so long,home felt like a sentencemissing half its words. Beds madefor children sleeping somewhere else. Shoes by the doorthat did not belongto every pair of feetmy heart was counting. I kept listeningfor voices that weren’t there. Kept imaginingthe sound of all of themunder one roof again— the arguing,the laughing,the sudden crashfrom another roomfollowed byI’m…
-
I know overwhelmed. I have worn it like another layer of skin. But even from my knees, I would have stayed.
-
When sleep would not come, she wrapped two tired daughters into a stroller and carried their exhaustion outside to meet the moon.
-
Two babies somehow create enough laundry for a village, leaving one tired mother at the base of a mountain made entirely of tiny clothes.
-
At 4:20, one brief smoke break becomes a seam between chores, sleeping children, and the tired body carrying the whole day.
-
The house is a mess because people live here—laundry multiplies, toys migrate, dishes wait, and love takes up space.
-
Sick or not, motherhood still wakes with bottles, dishes, dogs, medicine, and the quiet strength of doing the next thing.
-
A summer trip in Vancouver turns frightening when an almost-two-year-old’s warmth becomes the first sign that something is terribly wrong.
Between Bruises & Blooms 