Power cut

Winter morning
starts out fun
two small boys
wielding torches.

But we squashed it.

Harried.
Fuses flipped.
Phone calls made.
Rushing them
out the door.

When I pick you up
they said you’d been
quiet.

That night
monster puppet
had something to tell me.
“I’m worried about the lights”
“What if the torches stop working?”

Sorry monster puppet.
sorry little one.
I wish i’d done
this morning
differently.

I wrote this poem after a power cut last winter. Sometimes it is hard to keep the show on the road and be the parent you want to be.

Pep-talk

Confidence is not
something I can hand you
my girl.
You must
claim it
like the tongue of a chamelion
catching a fly.
Only you can trust
the love that grounds you
to provide footing
for your leap.
Brave the whizzing darkness
of unknown
cold against your cheek.
Shoulders back.
Raise your chin.
You are worthy.

Postpartum

Skin stretched, stitched, sore.
Breasts tender, engorged.
Belly empty,
while organs
rearrange themselves.

Oh travel weary vessel,
victorious glorious
carrier of new life.
Precious cargo,
wrenched away, disgorged.

As fluids leak
and muscles scream,
dare I celebrate these scars?
Adorn these wobbles
with joy?

Pregnancy robbed me of reason,
birth affirmed my strength.
Body broken and beautiful.

Red shoes

“Too much information”
you said
when I asked if anyone
had a tampon.
I beg to differ,
i’d say you don’t
have enough.
I haven’t told you
about lying on toilet floors
as endometriosis tears
my insides out.
I haven’t described
what it feels like
to hurtle through
waves of hormone mood swings
every month and still
keep the show on the road.
I haven’t explained
what it means to be
the one to grow a child
then push it out
through my vagina headfirst
to greet the world.
Have you seen what
my body has done,
achieved, made?

But its ok.

If you don’t want
me to ask for
a tampon
maybe i’ll just
bleed on your shoes.

Gloriously older

Why
should I fear
leaving young womanhood
behind
when all around me
stand older women
glorious as trees
that have held firm
laughing through storms.
Did I see
how much of the sky
you held up for me
as I waltzed beneath
your canopy?
I see you now
all around me like
magnificent
brass pots of life.
Light
reverberating off
every dent,
pouring through
every crack.
Bathing me in warmth.
I know the path will
be glorious.
You have shown me
the way.

This poem is for the many, many women older than me who inspire me on a daily basis. This is for all of you. Thank you for your example. Your grace. Your courage. Your love. And thank you for showing me how to boss this life thing.