Is that a child I hear?
Rumbling in my future, a-near?
Noisy, messy, restless,
tumbling down stacks of toys, and my hopes and dreams.
Is that the birthing poison traveling down my throat?
But stop! The child scraped a knee-
and so the cruelest thoughts of pregnancy slip behind me,
replaced by a maternal love that I bleed.
I bend down to kiss it, make it better;
with dire hopes that I succeed.
To hear the child’s laughter, to see his brilliant eyes light up like
New York city lights,
is enough of a thought to make me drink, willingly.
A mother remembers her child before anything else;
is it a curse, a poison,
or a beautiful part of pregnancy?

Even if I looked away,
I couldn’t stop thinking about the way your eyes sparkle in the light,
And hide their beauty in the shade.
…the way I try to hide my blush
For our gentle masquerade.

Usually I'm
too busy being happy
to write about it.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.