How Much Softer

golden mugs, from

golden mugs, from

25 October 2013
11:24 pm


T. —

I’m eating leek and potato soup in a cup. I just came home from my cousin’s birthday celebration at the pub. I’m so thankful that it’s the weekend. And I’m unendingly sorry that I haven’t finished everything I said I would. Tomorrow: I will reply, I will make a plan. I will set together ideas for November. These days, these years, they run away from me, and somehow I am dragged along with them.


Nursery, 11:00 p.m.
Robyn Sarah

Asleep, the two of you,
daughter and son, in separate cribs,
what does it matter to you
that I stand watching you now,
I, the mother who did not smile all day,
who yelled, Go away, get out, leave me alone
when the soup-pot tipped over on the stove,
the mother who burned the muffins
and hustled bedtime, tight-lipped.
You are far away,
beyond reach of whispered
amends. Yet your calm
breathing seems to forgive,
into the air to mesh
like lace, knitting together
the holes in the dark.
It makes of this dark
one whole covering
to shawl around me.
How warm it is, I think,
how much softer
than my deserving.




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