Mothers’ Day
Will you visit
the grave of the
woman who gave
you life?
Will you lay
flowers
on the tomb,
in memory of
the womb,
that pushed
and shoved and swore
and bit the
hand of the father whose effort put you there?
But there
you slept,
an hour old,
against my
chest,
for hours.
Beautiful,
peaceful, hours
against my
chest,
and there
you slept
until
until
until your
big brother,
with the red
shoulder patches on his grey sweatshirt
swanked into
the room,
like five
year-olds do,
sat on the
edge of the bed and crossed his legs.
He said you
had a cute nose.
Then ate my tea.
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