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Poetry | September 2011

Motherhood

By Deborah Bacharach

My parents want grandkids.
They’ve been dropping hints like
When are you going to give us
grandkids?
I get it.

They’ve got wooden blocks
in a barrel. They long to hold
the smooth edges again, make
a train track to Uzbekistan,

a tower to the moon. Pete Seeger’s
cued up, the actual record,
all around the kitchen cockadoodle
doodle do. The way I used to.

I picture myself with a son–
six years old in plastic boots.
Let’s make them yellow.
He has cinnamon sugar still on his skin.

He takes my hand in an April rain.
I stamp. He stamps twice.
We giggle down the sidewalk, swing
our arms and sing nonstop.

He wades into cattails and skunk cabbage.
Burrowing, his blue windbreaker barely
crowns the earth’s detritus.
I don’t call. I don’t wait. I walk away.

2 replies on “Motherhood”

jessicasays:
September 8, 2011 at 7:45 pm

that’s one of the best poems i’ve read in years.

Reply
Debby Bacharachsays:
November 7, 2011 at 6:45 pm

Thank you so much!

Reply

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