I guess it started when I was measuring out almond milk for my smoothie, one cup, two. I stopped for a minute because I was second guessing how many ounces were in cup; was it 8 or 16?
Math used to be so difficult for me. How did I learn this? How did it become a way of life?
I looked around the room, at the well-stocked lunch bag on the counter, my daughter's growing collection of LOL dolls lying on the floor and in the open refrigerator of her play kitchen. I looked at her, humming happily to herself as she gave some stuffed animals a "check up" with the doctor kit she got for Christmas. And I thought to myself, so many mothers don't get to keep their children, not this way.
You may be wondering what I mean or how I made the leap from math to motherhood, but I want you to know that as a child, I wasn't kept "this way". I grew up poor, and badly educated. I honestly didn't learn how to read until around the fourth grade. And by some act of grace I find myself here. There is more to this story, but I don't want to wander too far from my original point.
When this poem first came to me, I was thinking specifically about the children separated from their parents at the border, of children starving in other countries (and in our own). Of people misplaced, displaced, and misrepresented. Of refugees.
Of being stuck in a broken system.
I have a lot.
Some people have more.
Most people have less.
We can say something about it. We can do something. At the very least, we can see.
This poem is for all of us.
-
Super
I walked past a dog swaddled
in a stroller the other day
and I laughed out loud
Too soon, said my husband, stifling
a smirk of his own
The owners scowled
as they passed
And how absurd
I thought, this life.
Of excess.
Of convenience.
Of choice.
This morning, I made a smoothie
Not because it was nutritious, full
Of fresh fruit
And protein
And a bit of chocolate, too
But because it was easy
This is the luxury
Of my life.
My daughter played
While she waited
Running in circles,
Arms extended
Her body
an airplane, a bird
So few mothers get to
Keep their children
This way
Sometimes, I wake
up at night
wondering when
It will be our turn
When our number
Will be up
When the darkness
Will come to tear
Our children
From our arms
When it will shake us
From our Home
Like the last few
Flakes from a
cereal box
Maybe tomorrow
Maybe never,
Probably
I feel unqualified
To name what
Is just and what
Is not in this world
I can only know what
I long for
I want
All arms extended,
Every body
an airplane, a bird
*please don’t mind the formatting, my poetry making is still in it’s early life.
#poems #poetry