"A Mother’s Mantra"
for Liz Graziano
To hell with the dishes, the dust,
the dirt, the diapers, the drudgeries.
I sweep crumbs under carpets,
toss toys haphazardly out of view,
sniff-test the laundry to lighten the load
while dragging my teething daughter
behind me like a soapy mop.
I know I shouldn’t envy the man
who needs not abandon thought
to attend his crying infant, or ailing household;
who does not have to microwave his coffee
three times before taking one sip;
whose wardrobe is not Jackson Pollacked
with a colorful assortment of baby food.
But I do.
To hell with the dishes, the dust,
the dirt, the diapers, the drudgeries.
Last Easter eve, with my daughter
somersaulting inside me
like a Tibetan prayer flag releasing its mantra,
I tried to persuade a veteran mother
that our art does not have to suffer
because we are women.
Thank you for allowing me to remain disillusioned
for the last few months of my pregnancy.
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