Motherhood

It happens like a kind of
Dying.
Head over porcelain, world
spinning.
Two lines and excitement and
terror.

It happens like a kind of
Living.
Tiny heartbeat, little body
wriggling.
Movement and growing and just
knowing.

It happens like a kind of
Dying.
Tightening, sweating and moaning, and
fear.
How much more? and how long? and
why?

It happens like a kind of
Living.
One last push and a new voice
cries.
Laid on my chest, warm, squirmy and
you.

It happens like a kind of
Dying.
Twilight hours, dim and
blue.
Neediness and sleep deprivation and
tears.

It happens like a kind of
Living
Downy hair against my neck and
sighs.
Dimpled hands that grab tightly to my
heart.

It happens like a kind of
Dying.
Letting go of little hands and
trusting.
Scrapes and bruises, broken
hearts.

It happens like a kind of
Living.
Growing feet and mind and
understanding.
Watching you just live and
love.

Oh dear little ones,
you have taught me
it is only in dying we can
Live.

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