Reflecting On The Day You Were Born As You Turn Six


Amniotic fluid leaked to my ankles

while I stood by the bay,

posing in the sun for your father to take photos of us,

my hands on the belly you had made me in 38 weeks.

I planned to wear the black, comfy pants to the hospital,

but smiling widely at the camera,

squinting in the August sun,

I knew I would have to change, for the relentless flow,

the ebbing tide of birth upon us.

Walking through mild pangs,

I had time for vanity- a hair-do, make-up,

and play for the camera

before the grand costume change of becoming your mom.

Stretching in the sun, like a fat seal for photos,

wearing my tight white camisole stretched over you,

and those black, comfy pants I’d planned to wear, 

I had no clue.

My fingers perched on the belly of you,

the flesh stretched taut,

the protracted navel with which I’d grown familiar,

the stretch marks like fire licking the lowest region of my abdomen.

My fingers perched on the belly of you,

my center of gravity,

which I knew was changing with every drip and gush of salty liquid,

flowing down my thighs.



Jack turns six today.  Thank you for letting me share this poem with you.  I wanted to edit it a little more, but life is interfering at the moment, so I am posting it as is.  


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