Post Partum Memories
Swaddled
in an Afghan
woven by my step grandmother's
thin spindly fingers,
I am
warmer than the womb
then the
pale yellow grey
wall paper
that
seems to surround
and wobble
like the water globe
on my dresser.
Above,
I see
my mothers face,
round,
soft,
tallow cheeks,
I want to squeeze them
pull the rosiness,
into my small palms
and eat it up.
Copyright © Jennifer Brooks | Year Posted 2005
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment