Rocking in the antique chair,
full-moon round belly,
she waits, and waits, and waits,
for what will come next,
pink-limbed crying baby.
She bundles him to her breast,
whispers, “Be still, be still.”
Limbs grow fat and long and strong,
search out sharp things, spill milk.
She breathes in deep and chants
a mantra in her head, “Be patient,
be patient.” Limbs keep growing,
and the tongue too. She endures
the screaming phase,
the lying phase,
the backtalk phase,
the never-stop-talking phase,
the gruff-and-grunt phase.
Endures also the broken
china, elbows everywhere, sweaty
socks, vanishing food. And then one
day he’s gone, and she paces the floor,
listlessly, picking up broken matchbox
car, putting down old soccer trophy,
the quiet throbbing in her head. She
settles in the rocking chair, its old
wood creaking into the silence.