Roots and Wings

For nine delicious months,

I was your home.

At first, I hardly even knew you were there

save for the seven (yes seven)

positive tests lined up on our bathroom counter.

and the months of relentless fatigue

which made me feel

like such a lightweight. 

It was only later I found out the

fatigue was my body working diligently

to prepare your home.

(I think I learned this on Oprah.)

I loved being pregnant.

I loved every single moment of it.

I grinned. I glowed.

I had complete confidence

in my ability to care for you.

In loaning my belly to you,

I found such purpose.
 

Month over month

your body grew within mine.

Secretly, I felt smug about this.

I had the privilege of knowing you

in a way no one else ever would.

I had the privilege of knowing you first.

Many others would come into your life later,

but I got the first nine months.

 

Knowing you as I do today,

your birth was pure you.

You took your time.

Forty-two hours of labor,

four hours of pushing,

and, reluctantly, you came into the world.

The life-sustaining cord that connected us

was ironically wrapped around your little neck.

You were purple, limp,

and the birthing room seemed

to move in slow and silent motion

in spite of the flurry of activity

by those working to save you.

In cutting the cord, we were separated

and your life began. 

Eighteen years have passed and

I see the woman you have become.

Young, but a woman all the same.

She is strong, sure of herself,

and every bit as resistant

to changes in her environment

as she was at birth.

I still feel smug that I knew her first. 

This woman, my daughter, is leaving home

to seek out her own life.

Although I know she is ready

and has everything she needs within her,

tears come so easily these days.

My heart is heavy with the knowledge

I won’t tuck her in every night.

I won’t see her grumpy-cat face each morning.

I won’t make big breakfasts for her friends

who have flocked to our home for years.

I want to hold you forever,

but this is not how it works.

You have the roots of your home,

your family, your friends, and your own heart.

You have the wings of your confidence,

your tenacity, your creativity, and your vision.

You have roots and wings, my darling daughter

and with these, you will fly high but know

you may always return to the touchstone of your home

when you need it.

You are ready. 

The cord is being severed once again

and in cutting the cord, we will be separated

so a new chapter of your life can begin.

 

~ Mk Michaels, 2014

 

This poem has been published on elephant journal
http://www.elephantjournal.com/2014/12/roots-wings-poem/

Six of the Best

In the silence before the storm,
deceptively innocent in
appearance,
the slender reed waits.

I chose to be here.
I came willingly and in need of deep catharsis,
wanting my outside to match my
shredded inside.
Mostly though, I came seeking cleansing and reclamation of my own power,
knowing I would find it.

A positioning tap, an upward swish and
a whistle on its return trip down,
sends searing white-hot lightening across my whole-milk thigh.
Thunder cracks the silence, (my skin) and
a scream echoes inside my head,
but stops cold as I fight to simply inhale.
Pain blooms clear to the bone
and molten lava runs across my lap
dripping down my inner thighs.
Six of the best or
half a dozen of the other,
but really all the same.

I wrestle with self preservation and,
exhaling the shallow breath I have drawn,
break the expectant silence once again
…Thank you, Sir, may I have another?

Being the one ultimately in control,
the implication of my own directive surges through me 
the radiance long held invisibly within my being escapes my chest,
blinding all who might come near,
save for the most courageous.

In an instant, everything was changed.

~ Mk Michaels, 2010

Trash Day

On Tuesday and Friday mornings,
the pickings are good.

Heaped curbside in obscene sculptures, an ode to our waste,

lay one woman’s trash…and your treasure.

 

Amid the refuge and rubbish

are Glad and Hefty reminders,

glories and sins of our past.

 

Benches, barstools and beds.

Doors, dressers and doghouses

Windows, washers and wicker.

 

Having spent time at the curb myself,

sightseeing, seeking and searching

I understand your inclination to

poke and prod, hopeful in your quest to find

exactly what you need,

the one thing which will make you happy.

 

We have thrilled in our respective hunts.

Telling and retelling tales of our

quarry and conquests,

each coveting that which the other possesses.

 

I have been there myself,

seeing at first glance

glistening and golden

gifts from those yet unknown.

Finding, upon closer inspection,

that all that glitters is not gold.

Some is simply trash and best left alone.

 

Curiously,

I find myself among that which you have

discarded and disregarded.

Taking up residence at your curbside I sit and wait

for the next treasure hunter to

catch my eye, find my worth

and take me home.

 

~ Mk Michaels, 2008