Mother

Was it a dull ache,

A fluttering beneath your belly,

Or a memory of heaven

That announced my arrival silently, 

Beneath your breastbone?

You were the first to feel me.

You were the first to carry my pain.

You were the first to sacrifice all of yourself

For that which you did not know,

But that which you loved.

There is no soul in the world who feels the pain of a child,

No voice who silences tears,

None who feels the peculiar presence of a life,

As she who has carried it within herself:

It can not be removed in nine months. 

How can I doubt your love for me,

You who loved me first?

How can I hide my face from you,

From whose womb I was torn

With screams and gnashing of teeth?

Blood and water.

Needles and forceps.

Pushing and pulling.

Vernix and hair.

Smiles and tears.

Tomatoes and cottage cheese. 

Ice cream and pickles.
Pineapples and popcorn.

Lobster tails and red steak.

Macaroons and mangoes.

One does not walk the world for nine months in misery

Of bloated feet,

Of aching back,

Of endless nausea,

To let go so easily.

You remember the final push in the delivery room

As no one else remembers it.

You remember suffering the longest contraction

As only one mind can.

You remember my head on your lips for the first time.