mother skin

 

motherhood is
two scars on my belly
like lightning bolts or wings perhaps
reminders of a body
that's been stretched:
an ancient tale
of one growing another -
it's the nuzzling face
of a newborn,
mouth and eyes rooting
for sweet nourishment -
it's the kisses on my neck
of a two year old
who just climbed into bed
and whispers something softly
about toast or trucks
it's the five year old in the back of the car
that asks:
what is mist made of?
how many sleeps until you die?
it's where I let go of self
and find her again,
with softer skin, a fuller heart
and hands that are always moving -
who cares less about the perfect,
surface of things
and bends into beauty
that's offered in the everyday
in faith, in messes -
to love deeply
and keep on.

(Jan, 2017)