i’ve been nostalgic for my babies lately. no, i don’t want another, just remember the sleepless years with a bit of fondness since i finally have some distance.
this is for all the young mothers, buried under a pile of onesies, tantrums, and spitup, wondering what the hell happened to their voice and hoping they’ll someday find it again.
somewhere deep down
i am
a poet
but right now,
i’m doing the laundry.
.
how did this happen,
this daily, mundane takeover?
dishes, diapers, dust –
these are not the things
of which a poet speaks.
but they are the things
of my today.
.
how do I meld these two words –
Ordinary.
Holy.
without either
losing flavor?
.
a cry pleas from the crib,
the deep eyes hold mine,
pining for just
one
more
moment.
i lose, and stay
even though
my energy for any more moments
ended hours ago.
while words reach far into my soul,
the eyes touch
deeper still.
.
perhaps one day,
the poet deep down
will resurface
to a new world,
seasoned by the
holiness
of these ordinary days.
between worlds 