A Mother Poem

Desperation still resides in me

Residue

A repository even

Happily married, regular sex even

But that dry reservoir of joy

My friend's brother killed himself this weekend

"My brother took his life"

48

David Foster Wallace, 46

Diane Arbus, 47

Frida Kahlo, 48

Tasha Diamant, 47

I went to that place tonight, for a moment

Sometimes I go there

Something about knowing, like really deeply and viscerally knowing, how things are connected and

So what?

The so what grinds me up

Something about ancient ancient ancient loss

Who mothers the mothers?

And then

The little one climbs on top of me and falls asleep

And the older one rolls against me and puts her hand on my arm

And I feel their weight and their breath

And they hold me down with their themness, their hereness, their selfness

And I remember

I am a mother, their mother

The miraculousness

How can the world not know?

How can I not grieve such ignorance?

Such atrocity

My homies, gone

But I am a mother, their mother

And they help teach me to be mother to myself

And I am learning