Thursday, April 14, 2011

The Hoo Doo of Motherhood

My daughter's birthday is approaching; it makes me sentimental. This poem is about the confusion of being a parent. Maybe some mothers aren't confused, but I was—am. Also, I'm a nature poet, I guess.

I Remember When I Made You


I carved the ribs and longbones
of peeled willow;
the flexibility seemed good
the wood
both attractive and available.

I used water weeds for your lungs,
cold and green,
but damp and knowledgeable of air.

Hung inside, no one sees them there
drifting currents of hair.

For the head
a puffball mushroom.

I chose it for the size and shape,
its dense and giving nature
white and round and impressed by my thumb.

I considered flowers for your eyes—
harebells and clematis might have been charming—
but the shiny slime of trout
was more authentic somehow.

That is how you got that little spot
of gold in the left eye.

I made you in that manner,
and I left you propped on an alder fork.

How you got from there to here
standing in your wedding crown
puzzles me, but I remember
how I made you.

Today Poetry Friday is hosted at Random Noodling
I lurve Random Noodling. That is all.


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