My head is full of thoughts about future motherhood:
“when he enters the world,
life will begin all over again”
or:
”when I’m a mother,
maybe everything will fit perfectly,
everything will make sense,
and our lives will be charmed”
or maybe even funnier,
”when I’m a mother,
maybe that’s when I’ll become a real writer.”
Of course, these are just musings, happening during
anxious wanderings —
will I walk down the street with
my child, still writing poems
in my head?
Or maybe he’ll leave my body
like a poem,
all my best wishes and words,
a beautiful tangle of feeling and joy
and wholeness
And others will read him, too,
recognizing his head of flowers,
of prose,
of sweetness.
brought me to tears. keep 'em comin, mama ❤️