PoetryView
by Sam Pierstorff
MOM peom
Mom to the 3rd Power
—for all mother but especially for my wife, Ruhi
Now that he understands that there’s a tiny child
inflating inside the balloon of your belly,
I tell our oldest son when he misbehaves
that I have kept the receipt on his life
and he can be returned to the store from which he came
at anytime if he doesn’t stop pulling his sister’s hair.
And that’s when he begins to cry, imagining his long body
warped into a pretzel then swallowed by his mother.
But what I don’t tell him is how lucky he would be
back inside the one-womb apartment that he left 6 years ago
with you, the most beautiful landlord in the world, living in the loft
just above the heart that beats like rain on a wooden roof.
Once inside, he’ll discover his name carved into uteran walls—
the M in Hakeem drawn into humps of a Loch Ness monster.
He’ll trace the A of his sister, Ameena, though it is upside
down like a teepee flipped over in heavy winds.
Then he will find a new name, Deen, who you believe writes with
his feet since he kicks so hard against the thin walls of your stomach.
But you have not evicted him. Not yet. You let him stay
until he is ready to face the cold, harsh world.
And even then you will hold his hand so he never walks alone.
Some mothers give birth. Some give life where every cut
is bandaged by a kiss and every tear
is absorbed by a hug that can be felt forever.
These are the lucky ones. These are your children,
and when they fall, they hurry into your arms to rest their heads
against your chest like they did on day one when they were pink
and scared and planted in your arms to hear your familiar heart
beating like the knuckles of an eager guest rapping on the door.
There is room at our table, so you welcome one more.
Tonight you will serve love on a silver platter, enough
to feed your new family of five for the rest of their lives.
