Monday, April 25, 2011
Easter Sunday, the challenge is to write an autobiographical poem.
With my belly full of restless child
I paid the closest attention to
Rose as she held my hands, palms
up, gazed from my face to the lines and creases
and back again.
Spoke of visions of cowboys and sailors,
called my life a circus in three rings and said
“you rely on your children too much.”
She later, when asked, corrected this wording to say
“dote. devote. give. too. much.”
I was 26 then
and weeks later would birth my first planned child
one of the only things I planned in my life.
How could this little gypsy lady,
wizened, wrinkled, rasping,
and I would discount one and then another;
end up here in some other springtime
still full of wonder.