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?