Monday, February 3, 2014

Maternal Pulse - a poem to my child

Maternal Pulse

In the dim nursery, we rock.
Your hand,
which in your conscious hours
is forever wet from use
soothing  your newly swollen gums,
now is warm and dry,
and curled delicately around
my manicured finger.

There we rock
until your head lolls back
mouth still in an O,
the perfect inverse
of my form,
one cheek flushed pink
from having been pressed
against my breast.

Keeping cadence as we rock,
I hoist you upright
and hear your soft snore,
until I drew you to my ear
and pressed your cheek to mine.

Still we rock,
your head on my shoulder,
until it grows suddenly
your waking resistance
replaced by intrinsic trust.

That moment
will be my notion of you,
a Pompeian relic
when you grow to be the man
I only imagine,
as in this dim nursery, we rock.

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