one thousand four hundred and sixty

Sometimes, it still feels like I am in the throws of it all.
The pressure, the wincing pull,
the relief of breath.
It is a constant rebirth — this motherhood.

You came into the world, pulled out with force.
Not one push. Just a body, jostled like a wave
on a cold, grey slab. Florescent lit.
Arms outstretched, bound like a religion.

And with a rush of exit — you were here.
I was emptied.

Now, for 1460 days I have been refilled.
Over and over, with a thousands ways
of being brought to life in a laugh, a twirl.

The mispronunciation of a thousand
small, beautiful words.

 

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