My pain dwells in the space Between lower back and upper legs Where the holding meets the doing The hinge that screams For oil, for ease, for new Screws to tighten up my will I have opened these hips Again, and again and again To engulf some and release others My hips cry, oooooh. What have you done for me lately? I wanna be the one in control.
mother
Thank You Mom: A Mother’s Day Poem by Asha Lipman
This poem was a gift I received from my daughter, Asha Lipman, age 11, on Mother’s Day 2020 in the first six weeks of the Covid-19 lock down of Philadelphia. I am putting it in my blog so it is never lost to me.
Thank you mom
For deciding to try one more time
For first having a good long cry
Then working again after the two you tried
Thank you mom
Thank you mom
For trying that hard on your own
For making a boulder out of stone
For taking anywhere and making it home
Thank you mom
Thank you mom
Thank you for the late nights
The work fights
The fighting for people’s rights
Thank you mom
Thank you mom
Thank you for the midnight snacks
The double checks
The extra bed tucks
Thank you mom
Thank you mom
Thank you for the endless hugs
Thanks for the unconditional love
Even when I’m not enough
Thank you mom
Thank you mom for being you
Thank you for what you do
Thanks for being the person who
Is a shoulder to cry on
I love you mom
What can we say to the children?
What can we say to the children,
as we watch the waves rush in?
“Apocalypse” gives them no room
to imagine their emancipation.
What is love in these times:
cradling, coddling, condoning…
catastrophizing, condemning, collapsing,
or calling in, calling out, calling up courage?
Our children need courage
to care, to acknowledge, to witness, to change.
One world is ending, so another begins.
Prepare them, prop them up, propel them.
Find your own courage
to set them free from fear,
free from fate, from false fathers,
free to find the future for us all.
He Feeds Her
He loves his babies. Always has. His hands perfect for holding small heads. His long flat chest a place to rest and hear the thump-tha- thump just like it was in mommy’s tummy.
I hated breastfeeding. Never enough milk. What did come was so often vomited back onto those bags I lugged heavily on my frame. She’d scream with acid pain and empty belly.
He’d soothe her patiently. Rocking, and shushing and swaying. Cooing, and patting, and humming. Loving her with every inch of himself. She’d sleep fitfully. Reluctantly convinced into rest.
Midnight feedings were hazy nightmares. He wanted to help. But the best milk was in me.
Breast is best. Breast is best. Breasts are beasts. Breasts are beasts.
After each feeding, I’d wake him, saying, “Take her. I can’t do this anymore.” He’d rouse himself. Sweep her up in the darkness. Pour sweet nectar into her ears.
Delirium twisted mother’s milk into mother’s bane. But the shame, the shame seemed worse than this. The shame and the failure:
A stay-at-home mom who does not breast feed.
Unspoken damnation whispered into my mind’s eye. “You’re a bad mother. Selfish. Weak. She will suffer forever. It’s all your fault.”
He said, “You don’t have to. It’s OK. Don’t listen. I love you. You’re good. You’re good.”
No. You’re good. I am bad.
He said, “I want to help. Let me help. Let me feed her. You can rest. You can sleep. No more pumping. No more soreness. Let me help.”
Every day for months, we three danced this way. And I felt myself pushing away from the child so waited for. Now, so hungry, always so hungry.
And me with nothing left to give.
So I let him help. Knowing I was bad. She would suffer. He would leave me. All good things, as they say, would come to an end.
But instead.
When the clock struck 10 I’d be fast asleep. A night-owl, he stayed up for the midnight feed. And I, the early bird, took the 4 am, happy to be with my girl.
So rested, body mine, no pumping, no resentment. Just the everyday trials of new parenthood – shared equally by two.
My burden had lifted. And his was increased? Would his baby love stay so strong in the face of the feeds?
When I asked, he said, “You don’t understand. You have given me a gift.”
“I hold her in my arms, bottle in hand, and she looks at me. I see in her eyes something different, something new, something real.”
“‘You feed me.’ she says, without words.”
“I am her father, and I feed her. Don’t you see? We men are not supposed to feed. But I want to feed her. I need to feed her.”
He feeds her. To this day, he feeds her. And she knows it.
And we are all free.
My Song
This is not a song for you.
I sing for you all the time.
Praises. Silly phrases.
Anything in rhyme.
But this verse has no purpose,
no reason to be.
This is not a lullaby.
I just wrote it for me.
This is not a chant for justice.
This is not a call for peace.
No demands, or reprimands.
Tonight nothing has to cease.
Tonight I am the only one,
who needs to hear the song.
This is not a chant for justice.
You don’t have to sing a along.
This is not a love song.
You know I love you so.
Heart’s desire, lit my fire
so many years ago.
Maybe I’l let you hear the tune.
But the words belong to me.
This is not a love song.
And this is not a chant for justice.
Oh and this is not a lullaby.
I just wrote it for me.
Queen’s Daughter
Your mother once saved me
from a fearsome beast.
We traveled to new lands,
and laughed in the face of danger.
We marched into battle
on fields of green grass.
She bested champions
with the pounding of her mighty hands.
And when it was time
to celebrate season’s end,
she wore a flowing gown of sky blue
Remember this always
you are the queen’s daughter
Walk tall, ride free, be Queen.
soft, and light, and filled with dreams.
Gender play
“A surprise for me!!!”
Little Brother third birthday
and the first present arrives.
“Cool! It’s a robot!!”
“Open for me!”
Big sister five lingers nearby.
Her two-months-passed birthday
still fresh in her mind.
“Ooh. A TRANSFORMER!!
Can I play with it too?”
She sits close to her brother, with watchful eyes
Eventually, Almost Three loses interest in his prize.
He says, “I want to cook with Mommy!!”
Runs to the kitchen. Clambers up the stool.
“Bowl please! Want some water please!
Want spoon please! Man spoon!”
Alone on the floor now,
Sister works the cast off prize.
She has figured it out.
Put on the wings.
Make him fly.
Little Brother wants Man spoon.
I pull out a teaspoon.
“Nooooo!” silly mommy!”
I pull out a tablespoon.
“Noooo.” He rolls eyes.
I pull out a long-handled ladle.
“Yes!! That’s a man spoon.
Raaaaawrrrrr!”
He growls as he stirs .
She sings as robot flies.
The next morning
Big Sister’s sighs.
“Mommy, are there any
princess transformers?”
“I don’t think so.” I say.
She is unsatisfied.
“I know!
A Cinderella robot…
that transforms…
into a carriage!”
Her idea makes her smile.
And that same morning,
Little Brother carries
robot into school.
On his right hip,
gently cradling him,
Just like mommy
used to do.
Too soon
Does this dress make me look fat?
(No. It’s too soon for this.)
It poofs out in front.
(But, you’re only five.)
And I want to look pretty.
(Is this my fault? Is this me?)
You’re cheeks are so round.
(That still stings, but just smile.)
And your belly’s so big.
(And so it’s begun.)
And so it’s begun.
And so it’s begun.
Has the damage been done?
No, my work’s just begun.
A Mother’s Survival Shanty
Swimming lessons are first
to prepare for the worst.
I guess sailing could be useful too.
Some kind of marshal art.
When things fall apart.
Self-defense in a world gone cuckoo.
Perhaps building a fire,
or recognizing a liar.
Who knows what will keep them alive?
Building shelter by hand,
coaxing food from the land.
When I’m gone what will help them survive?
The world’s begun cooking
and so I am looking
for ways to build skills and plant seeds,
to help my kids weather
well, weather the weather
in the new world we made with our greed.
Something About Eli
I want to write something about Eli
quintessential second of two
I want to write something about Eli
but he’d never demand that I do
I want to write something about Eli
if his sister would stop all this chatter
I want to write something about Eli
but I’m running around like a Hatter!
I want to write something about Eli
he’s deserving of some of my time
I want to write something about Eli
just one sentence, one story, one rhyme
I want to write something about Eli
how his smile’s full of mischief and mirth
I want to write something about Eli
maybe tell you the tale of his birth
I want to write something about Eli
how it’s so different having a boy
I want to write something about Eli
but I’m too busy tripping over his toys!
I want to write something about Eli
the two-year-old young Houdini
I’d like to write something about Eli
but I’m hearing his, “Carry you me!”
I’d like to write something about Eli
but he wants me to run, jump, and play
So I guess that a poem about Eli
will be written on some other day.
american incarnations 