One Thing I Didn’t Know Before

In the babysitting years, I was bored 
by making up games and boiling 
noodles, always looked at the clock.
And through that long corridor 
of my twenties I never imagined 
having kids. I was a kid. Then my daughter 
was born—a mythical god pouring some potion 
into me while my milk filled her. 
The rise and fall of her chest was scripture. 
And when my son arrived, I realized the reservoir 
was deeper. Yes, they have brought out the worst in me, 
a screeching, unrecognizable voice, some words of shame 
I wish I could erase. But mostly mothering shed what needed 
to go, grew what needed to bloom, our with-ness 
a new galaxy. I am ready to give anything 
for them to live. Being a mother is stumbling 
upon an entire field of four-leaf clovers, 
a sea of them, a planet of them
and keeping them green, open to sun 
and rain—their breath, my breath.