Four Days Past Due

Rhododendrons burst baby pink,

lavender, fuchsia and maroon. Roses too.

Even beet-red peonies snipped short

to fit the fat jar—five cervixes on green stems—

open within hours of being arranged—

like spring—on cue. But the body is not

a simple flower turning to light. A child

is not a scent or fruit. He turns inside his mother,

not the mysterious worm in a jumping bean,

not the wet butterfly finishing his wings,

not the eye inside a closed lid, dreaming

while the muffled world calls and sings

his name to wake, hatch, bloom. He knows

no metaphors, this water being. His mother

is no tree, bush, jar, socket, pod, but a woman

surrounded by flowers, warm inside, abiding,

living in her own time, smiling silently

at the advice of mothers young and old:

try sex, mountain hikes, spicy burritos,

clary sage, birth ball bouncing, castor oil,

masturbation, nipple stimulation,

stairs, curb walks, acupressure points.

She carries on quietly, amused, not the spring

her mother imagines, not the moon on two legs,

but a woman weeding her real garden

of invasive green, pulling ferns, English ivy,

wild raspberries beneath apple trees,

her strong thighs parted, straddling a giant belly.

Scratched, resting, cooled, she spoons

peanut butter onto boats of medjool dates,

savors, swallows, softens in her own way,

embracing, with me, the first and last lesson

of motherhood: be present while you wait.

for Sage