Motherless
Grief, some say it’s an ending.
But that’s impossible.
Though I lost my Mom this January.
January too, the month I emerged, a 60’s babe.
Takes some rearranging, this living now.
The kitchen for instance, stacked with boxes.
Pantry supplies await the shelves Joseph builds.
He dubs this deep end, blames my doom scrolling.
He may think differently, if supply chain snaps.
Meanwhile, snap fingers, tap acupressure points.
To soothe freeze response, sense flow.
Therapist tells me moving might be enough.
Set hand to heart, to feel what feel.
Motherless.
A physical impossibility, if one is to be born.
What is it swims, simmers,
waits for birth?
*From prompt: Craft a Duplex poem, from Jen Keretnick (of the Poetry Salon)’s Walking into the Duplex, May 18, 2025.
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