TASTE

This thin gruel is your first step
toward strawberries warm from the sun

wedges of cheddar made from grassy milk
Macs and Cortlands pressed into cider

but once this spoon passes your lips
I have to curb mine from proclaiming

I made every ounce of exuberant you,
your chubby thighs and chipmunk cheeks

hesitation stills my hand, but
you don't know what bittersweet means

what blessing should I make
over this first bite, your open mouth

a door to the wide world waiting
to be brought inside?

We recently began giving Drew his first solid food. It's been a treat to watch him begin to figure out how to eat in this new way, and I think he may be figuring out that this is food, not just some strange new game that mom and dad want to play! I'm thrilled that his culinary horizons are expanding.

But there's also part of me which felt a pang when we began this process. As happy as I am that he's beginning to eat food which doesn't come from me, there's something poignant for me about this new step along the road of individuation and independence. That's what sparked this week's mother poem.

From the moment of his birth, Drew has been moving slowly and inexorably into his own life, like an astronaut pushing off from his craft and beginning to float into the vast uncharted reaches of space. Of course, he's still dependent on me and on us for all kinds of things, but a million tiny separations are already beginning. It's amazing. I can't wait to see what he discovers as he continues to grow.

ETA: While I didn't write this poem for this week's prompt at Big Tent Poetry, I'm delighted to see a potential successor to Read Write Poem emerging -- and if you've been jonesing to see what other poets wrote this week, the first "come one, come all" post is the place to look!

[taste.mp3]