Motherhood
Poetry
Published in Motherlore Magazine ‘Body’ Issue 3
‘My Body is 41 Years Old…’
It holds all knowledge of time
A body that has carried and birthed two babies
A trauma and a hard won war
Morning body stretches
To function
To undo
the crunching soreness of lifting a baby and a child
daily, nightly, daily, again.
The leg skin is tight
stretched out before me
a cool, smooth, almost youthful, paleness
holding in veins that continue to put life into my exhausted body
it seems out of place.
My hands grip my feet and pull
They have deep, determined lines,
wrought wrinkles and skin sags
The repetitive motions of daily life,
ingrained on my skin
A constant, wriggling weight on my lap
Curled into me, feeding from my body
small, inquisitive hands that are learning to point
and to sign for milk
Fingers softy exploring my body
grazing over my dry, over-washed hands
My skin tingles with pure joy
It brings me into the moment
of never wanting this to end.
One moment.
Felt again and again.
Aging hands that change nappies
that hold and carry,
and ache to draw and make
I think of my Gran’s aging hands
that used to knit and cook and make
And help me stitch a suit for a college project
hands that now sit and wait,
crumpled into a lap.
Hard skinned, life-bound hands
that are squeezed lovingly
during hellos and goodbyes
I remember kissing my Grandma’s cheek,
as she aged into her 80s,
the softness felt like the finest tissues she rolled up her sleeves
softness I now compare to my baby’s fleshy belly
when my lips blow slow, giggling raspberries into it
A rumble of soft kisses,
sweet visceral memories
and the rawness of reality
splurging together through my sleep deprived mind
I can see through time, I swear I can
I can feel all the ages of life and death within my body.
The Land of Motherhood:
Nighttime Journalling
At bedtime one giggles through my tickles and another pushes her face into mine and says something so earnestly it snaps my attention away. Wide eyes and a wet mouth coming towards me, I thought to kiss my head but a loud whisper blows words into my face and the letters tumble into each other to make nothing, nothing but a feeling of being here. Right here. I’m still tickling the other one and she farts on her hand and shoves it into my mouth whilst the other other dives over my arms in an unplanned coordinated attack. My mind travels back to the library a few hours earlier where she gave me a book called, ‘Overcoming Panic’, and I realise that’s what I do everyday, in Motherhood.
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