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

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