My pregnant mother turns eighteen
While I, serene, float within her.
After birth, she still surrounds me,
A peaceful sea holding me up,
Where I safely swim, no fear of falling.
My ending, her beginning: indeterminate.
When the storm comes, the terrible illness,
My oceanic mother gathers herself,
Withdrawing deeply away from pain,
Then crashes forth with swells of emotion.
I’m tossed about, a vulnerable craft
Swirling in unforseen whirlpools.
Thrown onto shore, I’m shocked,
Dripping, alone on the dry, foreign sand.
I wander the beach starkly separate,
Fearful of this storm-wracked woman:
No longer protective, churning in misery,
Abruptly ending my confident childhood.
In a rocking chair at the water’s edge,
I spend long hours gazing at the sea,
Rocking, longing, rocking, longing.
The sky tells me the hours I’ve lost
Perched on the edge of my mother’s tumult,
Finding no way to sanely rejoin her.
That untroubled surface reflecting my face?
Too agitated now to show me myself.
I feel the tide-pull, but know I’ll drown:
I’m quickly forgetting how to float.
With wet feet, I rise from my chair,
And pull my gaze, face, love away.
💗💗💗
Thank you, Hannah.
This all works so perfectly, Karen. Your relationship with your mom is rooted in the peaceful comfort of water and has been painfully rocked in the way trusted water turns on us in the form of storms, strong tides and “unforeseen whirlpools”. As always, your writing is so vivid and real.
Thank you, Molly. I feel like I’ve been trying to write this poem for my entire adult life. I feel good about this version – think I may have finally figured out how to say what I want to say.
This is beautiful. I feel your angst, the separation, your mother’s turmoil, your roiling and eventual move away toward survival. Really powerful.
Thank you, Gina. This is exactly the set of feelings I was trying to get across.