Suns and Mothers

I.

“He feels he is not valued so he will risk destroying himself to deprive her altogether.”
–D.H. Lawrence

“I am your mother,”
she insisted tearfully.
Of course
I love you!”

“There is no
of course!”
I countered.
“Love is nothing
if not an effort!”

Later, I confess —
like an ass,
and to prove
my deathly point —
it was my pointless intention,
my purpose,
to stop —

drinking distant, acid toasts to my
suppurating ego,

treating time and life
as a waiting room
for my caterwauling pride —

only to learn she
was right all along.

II.

“if we love each (shyly) / other, what clouds do or Silently / Flowers resembles beauty / less than our breathing.”
–e.e. cummings

A zygote,
150 cells or less,
compared with the many thousands
that make up the brain
of an ant, and yet
such consternation.

Three months we waited,
enduring weekly ultrasounds,
truculent doctors proclaiming
thirty-four weeks the
goal for continuing to live.

Bedrest and vitamins,
television, and the earned
possibility of sleep,
all to make that
zygote Zach, three pounds of
greater love,

and possibility of greater violence than
I once thought possible.

Contemplating hard-won nothingness,
only to discover there would never
be nothing again.

And another,
two months in hospital this time,
punctuated by daily doctors
and the maybe of tomorrow
and home.

But then there is Lucas and a tunnel of light,
and the question of how in the world
this world will ever understand what
it has wrought and received.

III.

“Ye do it to me.”
–Proverbs.

 

Against this world overwrought:
right, left,
and up above,

we discover other mothers,
grandmothers, seraphim-dreaming
of our health and happiness;
the frequency of phone calls and flowers,
the back-fence considerations of

marital imperfections and maternal expertise,

the nuptial invitations
of Christopher and Sarah,
made to laugh so all that may hear
may laugh with them.

And there are Rory and Rowan and Molly
to balm the loss of our so-small ones
made big by time and trial;

there is
Ivi reading off the deck, listening to
Lucas sing and loving Dylan;

Sunanda offering Lucinda Williams,
premium parking and the art of accounting;
Susan recounting travels to Scotland
and Baltimore and beyond,

all to value other
little big ones.

In a world that clearly doesn’t care,
there is caring and concern and consideration;
in the struggle to feel valuable,
there is value freely, blindly offered.

There is an intelligible world,
at least within this perimeter;
there is the never nothing in this
desert of deserving.

IV.

“come on sweetheart / let’s adore one another / before there is no more / of you and me.”
–Rumi

Now, we are Mum.
We are now Dad.

And in them,
through them,
we have always
been each other.

We are now the
children of our own,
and each
other’s, children,

and we are now
the only parents
sharing histories
we can neither
recapture or escape.

And it is of our course
that we
love each other.

There is no more time to pretend.
There is no possibility of any other outcome.

It is love, of course,

and it will breathe clean,
returning, jagged-joyful
gasps until long after there
is no more of you and me.

[for Ivi, Sunanda, Susan, and Julie, of course]

 

Montreal, 2015.

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