Being pregnant was a paradise – a peninsula
But the afterbirth was an island.
The germination, the cultivation, pronounced by celebrations,
Declarations and exclamations and explanations of advice unsolicited
But faithfully submitted by those committed to the high stakes of my uterus.
You’re either for us or against us.
Nothing was simple or absolute during those 39 weeks,
Save for the fact that no one is ever a little pregnant.
A woman either is or she isn’t.
Those 273 days
Made me sleepy-humble-hungry-gluttonous-meek.
It made me silent though I mouthed words to speak.
It made me find solace and solitude of stacked pillows and sheets.
It made me walk-wander-waddle for some reprieve, a retreat.
Smiley faces. Personally escorted places.
Given the graces every virtuous woman deserves.
But our society has the gall, the nerve,
To place only the expectant woman on such reserve.
Belly bumps and tummy touches,
Barren women with misplaced crutches,
A workplace that lawlessly holds grudges,
Because now our loyalties are divided.
Secretly chided, socially derided,
The phone stops ringing,
Fake smiles can’t hide it.
There’s no denying it.
Something has changed.
Forever buried and frozen in time like a fossil stamped in lava
That cannot be carbon dated.
Glossy advertisements,
Catalog copy from maternity lines,
Paint a rosy glow of stretch marks and saggy tits sublime,
But the silence to which the marketplace submits
Is such a gutless, ruthless crime.
Pregnant. Women. Are. Not. Always. Happy.
New. Mothers. Sometimes. Question. What. In. The. Hell. They’ve. Done.
Sometimes they want to run.
Leave on a jet plane to nowhere …
(Covertly coveting a crash).
Pregnancy was a peninsula.
Connected at the hip to the outside world,
Yet somehow biopsied away from the nucleus, the breath, the life beat, the pulse.
Becoming otherness.
The afterbirth was an island.
Cast out like a quarantine.
Imprisoned in isolation.
Now facing the chasm, the schism, the divide …
Trying to swim through the gulf,
Create a bridge between the Haves and Have-Nots –
Those with and without progeny.
My concerns have been catapulted to the cornice of conscientiousness.
Their dates without fate,
One-night stands
And perils of having too much discretionary income
No longer raise a brow
Or throw my voice by an octave.
I mull over …
The Juggled Life.
The Second Shift.
The Mask of Motherhood.
Or my state of Flux.
They don’t really give fuck.
The afterbirth was an island.
The phone stopped ringing …
The visits ceased …
A dark circle under an eye evolved into a permanent crease …
Because the tears still haven’t been released …
Two years later
And this woman is still searching
for a semblance of postpartum support and peace.
----------------
K. Danielle Edwards is author of Stacey Jones: Memoirs of Girl & Woman, Body & Spirit, Life & Death. The Nashville-based poet and writer is a wife and doting mother to her toddler daughter. She is working on a master’s degree in the humanities, with an emphasis in literature, and earns her keep as a public relations and communications professional. For more, visit www.kdanielleedwards.com.
They look at your waist, hips,
and thighs, the swollen fingers
and ankles, the stretch marks
fading purple and silver
on your abdomen and breasts,
and want to discuss how much
you’ve gained, and then,
how much you have left
to lose. They don’t notice
the real weight, the heaviness
that bears down on your head
and chest, that no number
of sit-ups or amount
of time on the treadmill
can ever melt away.
My body is a battlefield,
Haunted by echoes of life and death,
And a dream about Schrödinger's cat.
And I'm not there...
Evicted all nice and legal-like,
I leave, but not without argument,
Giving birth to a movement, or in one,
All the while.
My body is a ghost town,
Silence heavy at dusk,
A stark reminder of the boom time,
That primal urge to fuck the ground,
And vanish wordlessly.
And I'm not there?
Val Holtz is a graduate student and research analyst who dreams of a world where women don't have to fight for ownership of their own bodies. She resides in Colorado Springs with her daughter.
Sometimes I feel like I'm spread far too thick,
With some plastic knife that's been tossed in the trash.
What am I but some wooden spoon threat?
Scrape, scrape, then rinse yet again
That plate that I rinsed just a brief time ago.
One glance in the mirror proves I'm not at my best.
A smear on the glass makes me doubt what I am.
Why must I question the significance there?
Polish, polish, make that mirror shine,
Now I can see what I'm destined to be.
Read more.
Outside in the snow a loud wail sounds.
I jump up to look, find him face-first in the snow.
How does he learn to rise by himself?
Pause, pause, watch him search for my face,
Wipe at a tear, then climb to his feet.
Look at this home, see it's inviting warmth.
Hear him open the door and stamp off his feet.
Why do I doubt the weight of my call?
Embrace, embrace, love with my all.
Help him to find what he's destined to be.
My hearth is beset by dependable tenderness,
A welcomed respite for this chilly young thing.
What's so exquisite in a room this banal?
Savor, savor, bask in the glow.
Drink in the knowledge that he has to show.
Folding his clothes, I breathe in the fresh scent.
I'm reminded again of the blessing that's mine.
Who always brings me this knowledge divine?
Certain, certain, as sure as his smile
That peeks down on me with the first morning light.
A light that flows far too fast through the room,
Touching gently with radiance all that it sees.
What can I do to slow the Earth's flight?
Soak up, soak up, for as long as I can!
The brilliance is fleeting and soon will be gone.
Angela Petersen is a 27-year-old mother of two, who lives in Edmonton, AB with her husband of five years. Since childhood she has enjoyed both reading and composing all forms of creating writing. Now that she is a mother with children of her own, a lot of her recent work is about the many joys – and frustrations – of motherhood. Angela’s great interest in Canadian History permeates much of her writing and, among other projects, she is presently developing a novel that focuses on the lives and struggles of Canadian Soldiers during World War One.
did you know it is impossible,
to hold on to pain?
because suffering isn't real
it slips and slids away from the edges of your eyes
later, it's nothing but a dream
but the meaning of it,
the why, you wanted to keep.
and that isn't even yours.
hurt lands on your shoulder to rest and to rearrange
an errant feather
you pluck agony out carefully, only to have it grow
back thicker next time
sometimes pain just falls out of a hole in your
body, one day someone
catches it
and wraps it in a blanket
one day it just spirals slowly down the drain.
Perhaps the first taste of ache is not a dream
right before your brain sticks it's fingers in it's
ears,
right before it turns on the fog and bubble
machines.
right before what you remember of pain is
something else.
and it's not hard to remember the way you howlwhined
rocking naked on your hands and knees
hating the old midwife who whispered hush and pulled
the sheet over you
again
and again
but wishing to be done.
(to say)
GoodnightstarsGoodnightairGoodnightnoises
to all of them
but it was only a dream.
about flying.
Jessica Lund is a writer in Portland Oregon with two kids, six and eight. She writes for everything from tattoos zines to glossy adventure mags, from fashion and teen culture to politics and advice.
a small voice asks "why?"
let me have patience
some days, my voice is two blades rubbing together
blade sharpens blade, my words are daggers
i am tapped of energy
my resources are depleted
i am the mama
two tiny beings look to me for help
for comfort
for safety, for love
i am only one woman
my weakness screams at me from aching feet
i call to the One higher than I...
let me have strength
let me be gentle
let me take another step
don't let me fall
Stephanie Wilkins is a stay-home-mom who somehow finds time to paint, draw, make jewelry, and write. She lives in Indiana, Pennsylvania with her husband and two children.
My son is a fantastic fellow.
At two years of age
he stands tall enough
to reach into my pants pockets
for gum and pennies.
Read more
His Prince Valiant haircut
along with angelic facial features
adds to the confusion of mistaking him
for a little girl.
He can out-talk
out-walk
and out-wit
the best of us
on any given day.
His blue eyes could melt
an iceberg in Alaska
on a January morning.
He is greased lightning
in short pants
and a challenge
when it comes to having it his way.
He can ride a bike
chew gum
lick a lollipop
count one to ten
and push a Tonka truck
all at the same time.
He is joy
and happiness
laughter
and song
all wrapped in one.
He makes my day
Every day.
And when I am through
raising my voice
to be quiet
and calm down
he is still my boy.
He is My Son.
Linda Della Donna began writing at an early age. She scribbled in big sister’s school book. Her poem, “My Son�, was penned 28 years ago. Learn more about Linda at www.littleredmailbox.com.
I see how he looks at me
The way I looked at you
When ever I spilled milk.
I yelled "SOCK" today
Like it was a curse and he limped
One shoe on, One shoe off
In a desperate search
To quell my outburst.
Shaking, shaking
How well I know that shaking
Finding it he holds it up high
Sock mama, sock!
Snatching it from his
Quivering hand and rough
On his frozen foot, I put
It on him and then the shoe.
I cannot sing to him sweetly
In that lullabye high , sigh
Voice of white mothers.
We hold on to each other and cry.
A single pudgy arm, lifted
to swipe your father’s glasses
right off his astonished face,
and your delight
at this accomplishment.
The way you hold the lenses,
now smeared with fingerprints
from your dimpled little hands.
The creases of your wrists,
the heavy bracelets of flesh
on your thighs, the sweet sound
of your voice when you wake
in a good mood. Your cooing
at the springy toy with the bell,
at the cat, and especially at us.
Such a smile, a radiance, when
all we’ve done is speak
kindly, or enter a room.
Your baby kisses that are more
like licks. The way you yawn, the
smell of your hair, those soft cheeks.
I look at you, and all I see
is poetry.
My son asks if famous poets are rich
whether I'm going to be rich
He says he imagines the poet laureate of the world
living in a grand mansion - the White House of verse
except that it would be magenta or vermilion
because poets like colors that are difficult to pronounce, don't they?
And he wonders if the poet laureate of the world
has a gorgeous soprano singing him arias 24/7
to lure any available muse right onto the veranda
where he writes looking out at pastures
cows grazing, horses neighing
a butler in white shirt and tail coat always bringing him
Pepsi poured over crushed ice, fizzing and cold
My son wets his lips above which a thin row of fine hair
is desperately trying to sprout and asks me to please
become a rich poet, the poet laureate of the world
because he likes the idea of living in a vermilion mansion
and a butler with a tray glued to his palm
eternally carrying a fizzing soda and perhaps even a sandwich
for his majesty the laureate prince
Sholeh Wolpé is the author of The Scar Saloon (Red Hen Press, October 2004) and has a CD by the same title. Her poems, translations and reviews have been published in many literary journals, periodicals and anthologies in the U.S., Canada and Europe, Middle East and Asia. More information: http://www.sholehwolpe.com.
My hand rolls the skin of my belly
Like a ball of masa
Over then under
Then over
My breasts swing
Like a pendulum
When I walk
Left
Right
Then left again
I hear a baby cry
And my breasts
Harden like clay
Ready to feed
A mouth that isn’t mine
Nanette Guadiano-Campos is a writer and teacher. She has had
several poems published and is working on her first book of poetry.
She lives in San Antonio, Texas with her husband and two daughters.