interdependence

glass melting into
tiny pools slip
from your eyes
you are sad
my son:

disappointed in yourself

(the hardest brand
of self admonishment)

i wait for the glass
to shatter
as you blink
and blink again

they linger
longer and finally

crash
splashing onto
your shoulder
your shirt
the one you picked
out for too much
money but said
you 'just LOVEd it'

(and i love you, so...)

i cannot believe
you are my son
and my heart
breaks each time
i realize

your tears are
not mine to wipe
away

they are yours
to pour lifetimes
into

fragile is not
something i
am necessarily
good at

autonomy
shines in the
face of Mother,
longing.

just doing it.

summer hair cuts
wiffle past the
waffle on his plate:
half finished

urging the food
for a quick gulping
and the teeth for
a fast cleaning
meaning
that i am a 'good'
mother

all of it has spiralled
into such a normal
mainstream
way of living
so fast
past the peace
vigils
and service
trips...
to the pediatrician
and stride rite...
right?

am i getting this
right? correct?
where do my philosophies
and my children's lives
instersect?

is there a new dialect?

this cast of characters:
were they in the script?
the one that someone
handed down to me;
to be?

or i am the writer
author
narrator
singer
performer
lover
mother
something
OTHER?

i am whirlwinded
into bills
and dishes
and laundry
and preschool
and library books due
and thank you notes to write
and baby showers to throw for others
and festivals to attend on the weekends together

it's always in the NOW.

zen.
is good.

focus is better.

you are a best friend i
never knew i needed

and each day
i see something
new in you that
i realize i could
never live without

shout it to you
i wish i would do

but i don't

i hardly even tell
you
that i love you

in a way that you
can know for real
that can heal
the harsh criticism
i give without
restraint

i paint a picture
of how much more
you should be that
you are not

hot headed is all
i can see at times
soft hearted is
your true soul

cultivate that i must
for you and us...

you are my life line
and i will follow it
into eternity.

to save herself

i whip off poems
faster than
lunch
laundry
lust

and yet i still
feel as though i
owe myself
more

or owe my poems
more of myself

whichever

the point is
i need more discipline
commitment
practice

toward this craft
of mine, less w(h)ine
to make it useful
for me

beautiful for others

perhaps the
pursuit
of publication
is a purpose worthwhile

denial...

that any of this is real
yet i heal each moment
with words that
craft themselves

as band-aids
or hugs

i give myself
or bragging banners

i wave
to flaunt a life

false and fulfulling
and in flux

always changing
day to day

it is mine for the
molding

holding this here
near is the kind
of possession
worth owning

the rest
just falls away...

needing

what i need
is some sort of flow
of movement

out of comfort
zone

hone

in on the
interior source
of talent
and pride

residual
stuff i cannot
explore outside
the parameters
of mommyhood

but does any
of that even
exist anymore?

what 'moves'
me these days?

a question i must
scratch at
catch that

throw it up
to myself
and scoop it
up and run
with it,
MVP of my own
damn team.

not too much
concentration
or time to talk
myself out of it

memoir cafe
sparked something
that hasn't
been lit for a while:
a smile.

dim, is not a feeling
i am accustomed
to
due i am for
something

bigger than this.

but i LOVE this.

so

within it all
i will crawl
with a light
and a pen
i will live again.

i am here,
i will conquer fear.