a poet to her son

(https://www.pinterest.com/maternitique/the-maternal-muse/) (https://www.pinterest.com/maternitique/the-maternal-muse/)

the holy thrumming of the fan

in our bedroom is chanting your

lullaby in protective undertones.


I am cozy, staring into the poised

bassinet that will hold you just less

than cocooned to me in ten short weeks.

I practice knowing the smell of you,

I stay up later than I’m barely able just

to shake hands with the exhaustion

we’ll happily lend a room to.


and you – you are practicing self defense

beneath my flesh; to you, the only world there is.

I could make tiny wishes that you’d some day

tell me what my heartbeat sounds like from the inside:

glass-smooth jazz, a jagged pop beat?


I like to imagine my writer’s heart

beats like the honey of a romance novel,

appreciating with intensity every soft thump of life.


I question that you’ll read my work

(hold it high as Hamlet held…

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