Hope in Becoming


I don’t have much to say, on the eve of my c-section.  I heard Quentin yell from his room this morning “ONE MORE DAY!”  One more day of kick counts. One more day of injections. One more night of anxiety-related non-sleep.  By this time tomorrow, we will already be at the hospital. Continue reading


waiting for a change a step sideways
growth in unwelcome circumstance
nausea swelling dizzy
aching tired frightened
all comes back to chance
circle, hope, fire
hidden truth
look no

Passing Through Me

When Death came
He was quiet and unassuming
A silent slip from one moment
into the subsequent.
No vigil, no disaster, no fanfare
But a small flicker.

It was a mysterious and unknown intrusion
When Death passed through me
Not next to me
Not beside me
Not in front of me
But through all of my defenses
Stealing a tiny life.
Once, twice
Leaving only a brief fragment
Where a baby should have thrived.

From a tender, inviting womb
To a hard, unfeeling hospital
Death… sent my daughters
Into the cold.
But they never knew.
Only warmth surrounded them
While their hearts were beating.

Writing No Energy

No energy 2:00 am again cannot calm cannot sleep feeling nauseous worried about stress a bath sounds like too much work I love baths but cannot take one

Best chance for sleep 9pm to midnight then up every hour or two up and down in and out of fitful dreams and discomfort cannot sleep without feeling baby move every time every hour 

No punctuation rumination just words around and around I wake with a fright with a start with a fear so bright I can’t breathe 

Ache back side arms legs zero right to complain feel guilty 

Write or risk losing the words as the clock creeps toward 3:00 am 

Roaring Back to Life

On the branches of her confused optimism
A piece has turned to tender literature.
The woman’s end has, in fact, created her beloved.
Her experience finds this absurd; that’s the reality.
She despises the line between beginning and end;
It takes all hope away
Once, she’d loved, because she’d known since birth.
When she fell into the clenched fist, she was, in fact, hopeful.
She wrote, in order to keep from feeling guilty.
Writing down memory is a deeper process.
Pierced by silences, suffering went unspoken, understood.
She connected to what she was learning.
Just a voice on the page, certain of being heard.
The notes mark her work, inventing that song.
She could no longer be a swallowed spirit.
In memory, she decided to live for love