DEAR SARA
I still carry your first kicks
in my hands. The vibration
rings out, says you
are coming, you are coming.
She was eighteen and Catholic, far
from her family. We
were housemates, we were bees;
we were butterflies who felt
the flutter of you. She kept
her promise while we
kept watch, fed you both stirfry,
saw you grow; let you go.
Do you have your mother's
brilliant blue eyes, her surprised expression
each time she listened to any question? Do you
have children; are you a mother, too?
She has children
who don't know you.
But we remember. Wherever you are
in this world of bells and flowers, you carry
the echoes of our voices in bone, and I
still bear your first kicks in my hands, Sara,
though that's probably not your name now.
The answer to the question you've carried all
these years is this: You were borne in love.
Happy Birthday.
published in Freshwater May 2017
SMOCK
Beneath the red smock she wore like a gown
two hearts beat. Hidden. Only she could say
what secret she carried to that far town.
Eighteen, alone, she moved toward the unknown,
her child, concealed, growing in her each day
beneath the red smock she wore like a gown.
Sapphire eyes blazed, she wore love like a crown;
danced with abandon at the prom in May.
Then away she slipped to the college town.
Thanksgiving, home, brothers teased how she'd grown!
What had she eaten? How much did she weigh
in the big red smock she wore like a gown?
She knew that we reap whatever we've sown.
To Mary she genuflected and prayed
for her secret in the faraway town.
She kissed her baby, then gave her away –
a story her children never have known:
Two hearts beneath a red smock like a gown;
she left one behind in that far town.
published in Literary Mama February 2017 |
