Our Babies Too

How do I grind coffee, spoon heaping scoops into the basket, fill the reservoir with crystal clear water, press the red button green?

While the babies cry.

Brene Brown said her pediatrician husband knows every kind of baby cry. He recognizes these cries as terror and trauma. She implores. I cry.

How can I clear breakfast plates, dress for work, answer calls?

While the babies cry.

How do we sleep when tears flow and helpless anguish rings from every grandmother I know?

While the babies cry.

Today an aching heart and pounding head is my morning routine.

My family’s babies are healthy and happy and held tight in their mothers’ heartsick empathy.

The baby girl is already six months old and today is the day she could crawl.

The three year old big sister hides in a sofa tent with her favorite book, teetering in the precipice of reading.

Our constant motion 6 year old charges through life with vigor, determination and astounding beauty.

The three year old spider man knows the civilian name for every superhero. He sleeps each night in his spider man pjs.

This four year old floats in goggles and water wings in the new summer sun.

Our eight year old loves necklaces and shiny jewel boxes.

My family’s babies are safe in loving homes with parents who watch them sleep and cry for the infants in baby jails.

We all sob for the wailing infants in baby jails. How can we even say those words? Baby jails.

So we’ll call and march and write and rail against the hate and tyranny.

Beautiful brown babies are our babies too.

These babies crawl, read, run, dream, float, and dress up too.

The suffering of their mothers’ empty arms is ours.

We must save our babies.

Solo Saturday

A solo Saturday morning.

My tired body is strewn across a comfy chair, left leg draped over its soft arm. I’m dragging last night’s sleeplessness in heavy lidded half-mast eye slits, while I languish in my sore throat’s swollen scratchiness and feel sorry for myself for missing a festive friend weekend.

Suddenly, streaming sunbeams from high windows wash my bare legs with warmth and light as our sweet cat purrs nearby.

With a newly buoyed happy heart, my solitary weekend of recuperation and rest ensues.

Old Photo

A photo of my 31-year-old dad holding
The 3 month old me on his lap in my
Childhood album caught my attention today
He holding me I’ve had this photo for years
And thought I knew it he looking down
On me blanket wrapped but today I
Took a fresh look and saw the rotary
Phone on the wall and the pass-through
Window over the draped kitchen table
His slicked back black hair and handsome
Silhouette my round cheeks his crisp
White shirt with turned up sleeves but mostly
I saw his gaze looking down at our hands
I followed his eyes how had I never noticed
He looking at my five tiny fingers holding
Wrapping one of his fingers tightly

Possibly

I have to write a poem so I can’t come to bed yet
But I thought I’d get in and cuddle for a bit
That should surely inspire you she says
Possibly is my instant deadpan reply
Spontaneous laughter spills from us
That may be your best poem ever
We’ll see how inspired I am
More laughter then silence
And silent cuddling
And sweet kisses
Good night
My love
Poem

Lost Time Hello

Wait for me on the corner my love
The walk is long but with each breath
Every step I’m closer to your touch hello

I make my way remembering your hello
The first night I knocked before our love
Was born our wary glances nervous breath

I quicken my pace my heart rate my breath
All faster as I rush for your sweet smile hello
Last turn maddening crowd searching love

All this time now just breath hello my love

King of the House

He’s the king of the house
But a patsy outside when
She’s lurking he cowers and
Shrinks dodging pounces
And the screams of attack
Of her clawless friendship
He undoubtedly forgets his
Could cut or slice when
She rolls him twice down
The hill by the pool deck
Defensive is his favorite
Position the second she
Arrives on the other side
Of the door enthusiasm
(or love)
Carries him into the fight
We call her The Interloper