Sunday, April 13, 2008

NaPoWriMo 12


From the crib, she bleats my name
like a wounded sheep, Mama, Mama,
in her soft whimpers. She says,
pa-pa broken, meaning pacifier.
She is too old for this kind of tether,
the constant sucking. In every photo,
it looks as if her smile has been plugged,
even the dentist sees her teeth are growing
around it, so I snipped the tip, no suction,
little comfort. Eventually she will not
want it or need it or need me. She is becoming
a soul in this world, always craving something.
And I, the person that she trusts more than anyone
is the source of her distress. Tonight I silently
mourn this loss as I lean over her crib,
look into her watery brown eyes and tell her,
Yes, pa-pa’s broken.


Kelli said...

This is wonderful and love the title!

it's been a good month for you! we're almost halfway there.

pepektheassassin said...

Very tender moment. I love your new About Me, too.

Woo Hoo, yeah! Almost half-done!

susan said...

"She is becoming
a soul in this world, always craving something."

This reflection resonates with me. She will forgive you the distress- eventually.

January said...

Susan, I hope so. I wonder what memories, good or bad, children take with them out of childhood.

Thanks for the comment.

January said...

And thanks Kelli and Joyce for your comments.

Cloudscome said...

I really like this one. So heartbreaking, this parenting business.

RachelW said...

I found this poem very moving. My kids never had cribs or pacifiers, yet you've captured something fundamental about the mothering experience that I relate to on a visceral level. I think there's a common language that mothers share regardless of the differences between our experiences.

January said...

Thanks Rachel, and everyone, for the feedback.


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