Swelling, growing, life within,
Kicking thrusting hidden limb,
Tracings under rounded middle,
Madonna, smiling, just a little.
In potentia, the child,
Soft and sweet or bright and wild,
Rough and tumble, party dress,
Peaceful time to sit and guess.
Knowledge gained, the plans begin,
Dream the life so deep within,
Dream the hearts that pulse as one,
And yearn toward tomorrows sun.
The death of a child, a fruit torn from the tree,
A desperate phrase, a common refrain,
“That’s not the way it’s supposed to be!”
It echoes through time, a howl of pain.
For parents, each twig is a limb
that branches off into forever,
and when it’s lost, that light gone dim,
forever dies off into never.
Never to see that tree grown tall,
with leaves and branches proudly grown,
forever to feel that wrenching fall,
the loss in heart, and soul, and bone.
what did i do, what did i say,
what can i fix to make it ok?
i want to do better, i swear that i’ll try,
i won’t act too crazy, i won’t tell a lie,
i’ll do all my homework, every last bit,
so there’s no need to yell, and no need to hit,
i’m sorry i’m clumsy and lazy and loud,
i’m sorry i’m naughty and evil and proud,
i won’t think i’m smart, and i won’t act too dumb,
whenever you call me I’ll be sure to come,
i won’t get too dirty, i’ll wash my own clothes,
i’ll take my own bath and wipe my own nose,
i’ll wash all the dishes, and make you some tea,
i promise i love you…please, mommy, love me!
Her air of “oh-so-adult” vies
with the child behind her eyes,
cartoon knapsack, scuffed a little,
riding high on rounded middle,
this child who still needs mothers care,
will she have the love to spare,
for the child who grows within
this child inside a womans skin?