Trust
In my first weeks of motherhood –
a butchered belly busy reassembling its hip-wide slice,
drenched in the effluvia of two,
heavy, wet breasts needed and kneaded and needed,
sullen, sleepless, alone with this vague, clinging little life,
this six then eight then ten pound parasite,
too heavy for my ruined body to lift –
I was told to trust
my knowing would grow, intuition would bloom
and although my garden of reason seemed blighted,
my love for her was seeded deep, was rooting, would sprout, was stronger than the spreading rot of my
despair, I must just
trust
sleep would come
and Iโd learn to interpret each shriek, coo, wail,
Iโd miss the ferocity of her need for me,
miss her weird little toes and squished face,
would see how human she is, would
feel a tenderness toward the once-was woman
gooey in her cocoon, disintegrating into this thing called mother
for her so
trust, trust
each of those hard days a stone cast behind me on the cobbled path
we walked this morning,
where she crouched to admire a wayward worm and asked
Whereโs the feet?
pointing to her own toes, so much bigger now that sheโs nearly three
I did not explain the anatomy of worms
I did not say trust me
but stayed with her in the wonder, and let her watch the little thing wriggle awhile
graveyards and parking lots
youth is (to be) wasted
a bruised peach: disgusting (delicious) cheap
youth is choices lo(st/oved)
is poi(ntless/gnant)
youth is graveyards and parking lots
v(ast/acant) spaces, these the only welcome places
(I thought, was taught, determined, decided)
to re(de)flect me
youth is be(yond/hind) me now
I am parked with rain pattering my warming car
fog climbs gravestones ahead of me, a wet butt in rain boots
strapped safely in the back seat, babbling
around us, a world of green
mosses and grasses crawling from the wetted ground, climbing, reaching
like my little one on that drenched playground moments before
youth is so much more than I let it be
will be (is, already) so much more for her than me
Might
i saw the sun i saw for once why i
never allowed myself access
to the matches
i knew
exactly what to do
i
burned
it
all
down.
Hannah Tool is a writer, parent and educator whose poetry explores motherhood, childhood and the unbecomings of self between and through both. Her work has been featured in Our California, TPC Review, and Suburban Witchcraft. She lives in Santa Cruz, CA (USA) with her husband and daughter.
