wildscape. literary journal

Motherhood
by Mary Simmons

I want to grow a baby
like a turnip: pat moisture-

retentive soil into a mound,
three cups of water

from the measuring cup daily.
I’ll pick the sunniest spot, hold

my hand above my eyes and squint
if that will bring you to me.

A turnip the size of a baby. A baby
the size of a turnip. I can crochet

a sweater for anything. Green thumbs know
when to turn the soil for the birds

to get at the wireworms, when to sow,
when to sit in the dark and time

your breaths to the clock until lightheaded.
A time for spreadsheet, a time for faith.

So many trowels. So many things
I never imagined doing alone.

I will feel guilty when I weed,
as though I am robbing some mother-weed

of daughter-weed hair against her neck,
a daughter-weed face in her shoulder,

plump daughter-weed fingers, an afterthought.
I know myself as blessing and curse.

I will fit the nursery with twine
and twigs, a rocking chair, soil

on the windowsill, a mobile of helicopter seeds,
strewn with string-of-pearls to tickle

the top of your head. When the rain comes,
I’ll hold you close. I’ll promise you

nothing can wash you away now, no bird
peck at your hair, no one take you from me,

and I’ll swear it, though it’s colder out here,
though you’re so small, I’ll swear it.

about the author // Mary Simmons