The prompt from today’s NaPoWriMo blog called to write about something small and something big meeting. Here’s my take!
My young son, my bread loaf
blanketed in his cradle, fist balls
clutched tight to his chest, howls
into the Kermit-green cave
of his room, unable to make out
my scent or blink through blurry eyes
at the indistinct roundness
of my face.
I’m in the bathroom. This is no easy task
for a woman post-birth; it requires care
and a peri bottle and time
to avoid the tear-stitches and hemorrhoids.
I hear the call but can’t answer, can’t rise
from this maternal throne
though the ache in my breasts tugs me
towards the door.
My older son, my string bean,
halfway to losing his toddler roundness,
approaches. I see this
through two open doors. I see
his hand come to his brother’s chest,
barely able to reach over the railing.
I see his lips purse in a shush
that calls to mind water, and motion,
and closed eyes.
S’okay, he says. Mama’s comin’. Don’ cry.
Quiet and dust motes and slatted afternoon light.
An infant hiccups his tears into peacefulness.
A brother is born.