Smicha preparation and the empty cup
Prayers for Thanksgiving from Reb Zalman

Another mother poem: Thanksgiving






Last year I carried you inside
to the buffet, to the table
to the big blue birth ball
where I bounced beside the fire.

Darkness falls early here
at this season: the eve of the day
I'd spend pacing the hospital,
contracting in the shower.

This year you scramble
around the living room, wind up
in Downward Dog by accident,
grab and devour bits of turkey.

Your babble, your crinkled eyes,
your hot hand slapping mine,
your gasps of laughter
even the year of staccato nights

and the painful realignments
of a marriage shifting
to new foundations:
all I can do is give thanks.

This week's mother poem is sparked by the reappearance of Thanksgiving on the calendar. Last year, I spent Thanksgiving pregnant. The following morning, we called the hospital at 6am; when they confirmed that they had a bed free for me, we drove in, and by 7am I was on the pitocin drip which eventually led to Drew's arrival on the scene.

It's pretty amazing to think that Drew will turn one this Sunday. My life has changed in ways I couldn't have imagined -- and yet, a year after his birth, I'm pleased to be able to say that some of the important parts of my pre-baby life have remained constant.

Anyway, here's this week's (first) poem. (I'm actually already working on one more poem, which I will post next week.) I can't decide whether or not to cut the second stanza; thoughts, anyone?

Here's a link to this week's Come One, Come All post so you can see what the Big Tent Poetry folks did with the prompt. (It was a wordle cloud, and ordinarily I love those -- but this week, I wound up going somewhere different instead.)