Ahhhhh.
  Falling asleep to the dulcet tones of
    My screaming baby,
      My snoring husband,
        And the Roomba ******* up what sounds like an entire box of Cheerios.

“Happy birthday, kiddo!
We got you this drum!”
Were the last words heard in my home.

Now it’s:
Bang bang bang.
Boom boom boom.
Bang boom. Bang boom.
Boom bang. Boom bang.
How fun.

What a fun fun fun toy.
So much **** fun.
He bangs the drum.
We hear the drum.
The neighbors hear the drum.
Strangers walking past our house hear the drum.
People who live down the street, around the corner, across the highway, right next to the construction zone hear the drum.

You can’t not hear this drum.
It’s. So. Fun.
So so so much ****
          -- BOOM BANG BOOM BANG BOOM --
                    Fun.

“Happy day-after-your-birthday, kiddo!
We got you this very soft and incredibly silent stuffed hippo!”

Let us never speak of the drum again.

Kid Number One got all the attention.
Classes and playgroups and that’s not to mention,

The toys!
Oh the toys, oh the hundreds of toys.
Kid Number One simply had TOO MANY TOYS!

A kitchen, a dollhouse, crayons galore.
Enough princess dresses to fill up ten drawers!

An easel, a ball pit, a bear that gives hugs.
Everything sold by Melissa & Doug!

So for Kid Number Two, what do we do?
“Hey buddy, mom’s tired. Go play with this shoe.”

I, like any normal human
keep a list of future names
I started it when I was young
then it was Landon and Ashlynn
kids I knew from school
written in gel glitter pen
in bright pink hues

my list is sorted alphabetically
genders separated as well
it’s followed me from Lisa Frank diaries
to pdfs files
sometimes I add to it often
other times I leave it alone

my list is heavily masculine
I'm not quite sure why
I like boys named Max and Marlon
I like Oskar and Gale too
I have a thing for Old English names
like Arthur and Holden
just to name a few
my boyfriend prefers Ash or Astrid
I like those as well
but, my favorite name is Olin
with one or two L's

I discovered this name on a lost blanket
draped over a fence post by the bay
I'd call him Ollie for fun
Ollie Ollie Oxen free! We’d play
he'd have red hair and freckles
I’d knit him many things
I'd sing him to sleep at night
I'd bake him lots of treats
when he cries I'd hold him tight
whisper that everything is alright

tests continue to be ordered
blood, ultrasounds, and more
results are coming forward
I refuse to see the score
It’s the very thing I’m dreading
I worry that it’s true
seems this list is fruitless
seems I am too

I have seen God.
Her head raised high, poised and beautiful
Smooth skin that seems to control nature in her veins.
In her was history, the first, the genesis.
Her love is impartial, incomparable.

I have seen God
In different shades of earth and nature
Made of Protons, neutrons, melanin
She is root; the source of life
Life itself, the very beginning.

I have seen God
She would trade her life for her children
She’s an armour and life jacket
She is the source of life and peace.
She is more than an angel, she is a god.

I have seen God
She is black.

Look,
one day,
it’s all
going to happen
to you.

You’ll wake up one morning
and skin your knee
for the
very first time.

You’ll jump
into your best friend’s
pool
in the middle
of winter
just to feel the
cold.

You’ll fall asleep
drunk
in someone’s
backyard
on cheap *****
that sticks
to your fingers
like pancake syrup,
and burns
like the hell
you’ll feel
the first time
you realize
he doesn’t love you
back.

Your life
will be full
of
laughter
and
heartache
and
temper tantrums
from not getting your way
at 5
and age 25.

But baby girl,
if you’re lucky,
and since you’re
your mother’s daughter,
you will be,
your life will be bursting
at the seams
with all the stars
shores
and peanut butter cups
your little body
can hold.

Maybe you’ll
grow up
and save
the world.

Maybe
you’ll slam
your car door
when you leave
and break my
heart.

Or maybe you’ll be
like me,
awake at all hours
writing down words
for someone
who doesn’t yet
exist.

But no matter
which path
you choose,
know that
I’ll always
be at the end of it
waiting for you
with sweets
and bandaids
in hand.

Oh mama oh mama
Feeding blood into my veins
Pouring water down my throat
Squeezing tears from my eyes.

Oh mama oh mama
Breathing air into my lungs
Freeing my blocked airway
Of the food that got stuck.

Spoonful spoonful
Sitting me up
Injecting saliva
And pumping my heart.

Mama oh mama
She is my clockwork
If she stops so will I
So wind me up agian

How I wish to nestle

In the flavor and smoke of your supper.


When I lived a homeless citizen,

Missing every ingredient of ancestry.


Whenever you string with dexterity,

The oregano, the soil and the wheat.


Filling in my cups a nostalgia worth to weep,

As the motherhood redeems my dying innocence.


The fruition of labors, withered dreams and secret treats.

When food and memories didn’t have to be refrigerated.


Every natural delicacy straight from the earth,

Covering the rooftop of my truth and your cuisine.

Four years old.
Four years old is the perfect age
To know enough about yourself
And not enough about the world.
To know everything you absolutely need to know
Before the world strips it away
And replaces it with a fake sort of knowing.
Four years old,
Old enough to recognize something that will drive you
For the rest of your life.
Four years old was I,
And four years old was he,
Mattie,
My Mattie,
When we met in the sticker-burr ridden play yard
Of a daycare,
And at four years old,
We became peaceful companions,
Slower,
Quieter,
And just a bit more odd,
Than the rest.
At four years old,
Mattie had a silliness about him,
And a funny way of talking through his missing teeth.
At four years old,
We avoided the violent, flying swings and sprinting, shrieking children,
And we scoured the outskirts of the yard
For four leaf clovers.
Mattie was a four leaf clover.
Incredible,
Unique,
And found by chance.
Because Mattie’s silliness and funny voice and missing teeth
Were not simply because we were four years old,
But because
Mattie came from a mom
Who couldn’t stop.
Mattie’s mom couldn’t stop doing drugs,
Not for a single day.
Not when her belly swelled with Mattie inside,
Not when he came into the world,
Breathing the air she did,
Drinking the milk she made,
Mattie’s mom couldn’t stop.
He was buried beneath clusters of clovers,
And his four, perfect leaves were nearly withered away,
When his parents found him.
His parents,
Two incredible women,
Who had so much love in their hearts,
They couldn’t help but let it overflow
Into the cup of a small child with bright eyes and dwindling breath.
Mattie,
My four leaf clover,
Is happy today.
Today,
Mattie,
No longer four years old,
But a man,
Is about to be a doctor.
My four leaf clover,
Who looked to his mothers like the most beautiful child that was ever born,
With the sharpest wit
And the most brilliant smile,
At the end of the day,
Is simply another clover.
His beauty and his value,
Are what we give him.
His rarity, his singularity,
Is something we create,
Something we fashion for him
Out of love and acceptance.
To this day,
I lean down and examine patches of clover,
The image of Mattie,
Gently counting leaves with chubby, toddler fingers,
Burnt into my memory.
And to this day,
I hold in my heart the hope,
That I will meet a child,
My own Mattie,
My own rarity,
My own treasure,
My own little four leaf clover.