Bad Mommy, bad, bad, bad
This is the first, I am sure, of many more bad mommy poems. Bad, as in bad mommy, not bad as in bad poem. But you know, the truth is the truth, and some days, it's less Mother Goose and more Grimm. I was not exactly inspired by an image, per se, as the PoetRy ThuRsdaY prompt requested, but my image poem is in progress, and I really wanted to post something before Saturday!
I Am No Mary. You Are No Lamb.
At eight thirty on Friday night
not five minutes after I laid you, asleep,
in your crib, your cry pierces sharp
as a hook in a gill.
I am too tired for you.
After a day full of picking up your knock downs,
putting away your drag outs,
I am punch drunk.
If I have to enter the ring one more time
I just want to sit in my corner and bleed.
Your blue eyes have no charm or sparkle
in the dim of a princess night light.
You are as heavy on my chest
as the dentists’ lead jacket, draped before an x-ray.
Your blonde head drills into my chin.
This is the grey in the shadows
of the pink and blue portrait of motherhood.
This is Jack’s seventeen stitches,
Jill’s three broken ribs.
This is the cry of the baby,
formerly of the treetop,
damning the wind, the tree, and the broken limb
as she falls through lilting eternity
in that cradle.
After you read this poem, read another.
The sun always comes out
to dry the drowned spider.
At eight thirty on Friday night
not five minutes after I laid you, asleep,
in your crib, your cry pierces sharp
as a hook in a gill.
I am too tired for you.
After a day full of picking up your knock downs,
putting away your drag outs,
I am punch drunk.
If I have to enter the ring one more time
I just want to sit in my corner and bleed.
Your blue eyes have no charm or sparkle
in the dim of a princess night light.
You are as heavy on my chest
as the dentists’ lead jacket, draped before an x-ray.
Your blonde head drills into my chin.
This is the grey in the shadows
of the pink and blue portrait of motherhood.
This is Jack’s seventeen stitches,
Jill’s three broken ribs.
This is the cry of the baby,
formerly of the treetop,
damning the wind, the tree, and the broken limb
as she falls through lilting eternity
in that cradle.
After you read this poem, read another.
The sun always comes out
to dry the drowned spider.
posted by jillypoet @ 9:12 AM
6 Comments:
Jilly, you are a genius. You always make what might be sloppy sentimental poems wonderful instead. Your images, your words are always fresh and unexpected. Good job!
Yes, this works, and we've all been there! The dentist lead jacket hits it. Great poem . . .
Not only is this honest - it is terrifically written! Your choice of metaphors etc - concise language - everything. Excellent.
I am emailing a link to my daughter. She must read this. It is brillant. I love the way in which you wove the nursery rhymes in. Lovely.
Great use of metaphors. Sometimes you make the envy rise in me like a . . . like a . . . um, hmmm, can you help me out here? ;-)
Also, I thought the stripped back and exposed fairy tale/nursery rhymes worked really well; the broken bones/stitches, in particular, caught me off guard in a very satisfying way.
So very clever. A poem to be shared.
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