I stopped flowing
the day I gave birth
for no other reason than
what my time seemed to be worth
with my little man under toe
its hard to sit and think
i can't even remember
the last time paper was touched by ink
it had to be before he was born
and things were all right
and elation poured out
onto the pages of
my boss' dictation like
"Hence, I forego any interruption. . .
. . . The eclipse hides all of me
only you inside my swollen abdomen
casts a shadow slightly swaying
from your soft movement."
And all day long it was like this,
me pouring out pages and pages
writing about your upcoming arrival
and all of my feelings about being
your mother and you being my son.
and then, on the day you were born,
you loudly let your presence be known
and exhaused my own
in between loving you and working
and loving you and laundry
and loving you and dishes
and loving you and bottles
(his and yours)
and loving you and then
loving you some more
I forgot about loving myself
and the way poetry, written or read,
loves you back.
Sure, I sat down to write
but then nothing came out.
and then my job was restructured
(nice way of saying fired for no reason)
and now with the bills coming
and his looks when i say "i still
haven't been offered anything
at my last salary,
but, I had time to write a poem
wanna hear?" imagine that reaction
so, i stopped and now,
i don't know where to begin
