In My Hour of Darkness
The tulips and rain have me
thinking about April long ago--
how solemn and little we were
striding two by two into church
to lay lilies at Mary’s feet.
And that makes me think
of my mother, her story of how
she nearly had me at home,
miscounting the contractions,
but made it to the hospital
where they put her under,
then woke her to hold crying me
three days before Christmas.
She said I was her gift.
It was a day of lilacs and wind
when you told me what we dreamed
might be was growing inside you.
Months later I was there to count
for you, to rub the agony of your back,
to see the shine of him come out of you.
How you suffered. I know
you screamed and there was blood
and stitches, but we wanted the world
and his new breaths to behold.
Today the news keeps showing
a video of the bomb exploding:
ten tons and the round mile of ruin
it brings to earth. It is something
mostly men conceived and created.
They did not give birth to it.
It is not their baby. And I refuse
to call it the mother of anything.
Published on Facebook, April 16, 2017.