Postpartum Glory
My thighs have grown
Wider, softer,
more dimples.
My calves curve
like the sides of almonds
and my toes
remind me of hors d’oeuvres.
My stomach is round
Flesh and fibroids.
She likes to play
in the empty pool of my
belly button.
The rare time I giggle
at a glance of my midriff.
My arms are categorized
“mother;”
arms I always saw on the women
who were nurturing, correcting,
cooking, laughing
on the phone or after church.
My breasts are very soft,
duty filled.
She looks up at me
mouth wrapped around areola.
Her cocoa eyes sweetly call me
the mama
she has yet to say aloud.
I’ve been looking in the mirror
longer these days
especially when I am naked,
eyeing with kindness
the newly formed parts of me
blessing them,
thanking them
for carrying me,
for carrying her.
I always end at my face
that has plumped to a
ripened plum.
The corners of my mouth
curve upward.
My cheeks rise
You look good, woman.
You look good.
The smallness
She has to come out tonight.
And like a genie snaps her fingers, I am small. 12 instead of 35. Side bangs set on a pink roller. Fluorescent, neon and always glitter. Too shy to not cry. Wondering what the world holds for me at the dedication pages of my Baby-Sitters Club books.
You sure you’re not having twins?
More than 5 fibroids equaling the size of another baby. If you want to make God laugh, they say. My doctor did it for him at the sight of my birth plan. I will read, paint, meditate, envision, pray myself into the natural birth I want.
They’re going to cut me.
Yes, I am small. Surrendered to her time, her BIG who will soon reveal herself. Exit and
enter grandly:
A spotlight. An audience. A blue curtain.
A small baby girl lifted.
I gasp. A glorious gasp, loud and uncontrolled. From my small has come big, boundless and beautiful. Cheek to cheek we meet. She hits a high soprano note as they take her away. Her sound rings through the hallway. Doctor laughs,
They always know their mothers.
I smile. Stare into the surgical lights and think of how she may feel this smallness one day, this
grain of sand, sedentary stone, ray of light.
This humble honor to be a glorious piece of
the ocean, the mountain, the sun’s
perpetual shine.
3 A.M.
On grieving my cousin, Tamara Hector; now a beautiful, celestial mother.
Young children dreaming
of their mother.
Reforming her beauty
as their eyes glide
right to left, left to right,
under those soft domes of flesh.
A phantom print of a mother
who will never wrinkle
or ask them to repeat that again
Louder! In this ear.
She will live
maybe for thirty seconds
one night;
other nights a lifetime
as she smiles with very little words
while walking the shore,
which drifts into the living room
centered in the sanctuary
that suddenly becomes her bedroom
where she sits facing a window.
The sun static amid rise and set.
They watch her
not knowing whether she will
rise to work or lay to rest.
But for certain they feel her
love that even in their waking,
never burns to ashes.
Love they will feel at
3 a.m.
as they stare at the ceiling
wondering if she’ll ever
visit like in the movies:
sit at the edge of the bed,
stand in the corner of the room.
walk out the door with
just a glimpse of a white cotton hem.
If only they could touch it,
reach her again.
Young children will dream
until they have children
of their own
and then they will rationalize:
Bad things happen.
That’s the depth of it.
People die and people live
and die later.
But close to 3 a.m.
with their eyes dancing
the dark,
she will be there
pleading for them
to get up
It’s time for school.
Melaina Williams is a poet, playwright, singer/songwriter from Inglewood California. She finds great joy in connecting with people of all backgrounds through creative arts, especially creative writing. Melaina studied Creative Writing and Theatre at USC. Her book of poetry, “Bless Your Sweet Bones” was published by the historical World Stage Press in Leimert Park. She also penned, “The Humble Commode” a chapbook. She currently lives in Los Angeles and spends her days writing and binge-watching Cocomelon with her daughter.
