Two in the Morning

This thunder is my final child.
Bursting into my sleep,
Gushing out of my blood,
Exploding into light.

The quaking when I engendered him
Became the storm I waited for years
To pass over,
Ignoring what foundations shook,
What breakage ensued.

Too soon he grew and more:
A rumble of doors,
Turbulence as he stumbled in,
Fumbled in stairwells
Till I woke in alarm:
So late, so early!

A quickening. Rain?
No. Distant flickering—
Bathroom switches,
A faucet confessing.

Mothering is all about this:
Thunder at nighttime,
Rushing water, new light—
The startle and succor of
A son come home.