The threshold
Of motherhood
Is crossed.
Our being
Shifts,
From the moment
We share space
With another.
Yet who will also mother us?
When they stay,
We are joyous.
If it’s not their
Time to stay,
We grieve and we grieve.
And we’re grateful they chose us for a while.
And always,
We will be their mother.
But in the pain who mothers us?
When our lives
Are graced,
And they join us earthside,
Mothering consumes us.
Through breast or bottle
We feed them.
Through voice
And song
We comfort them.
We guide them,
Teach them.
And who mothers us?
Sometimes our mothering is inspired.
Sometimes not so.
Sometimes our love is welcomed,
Sometimes rejected.
Sometimes there’s the indifference
Of familiarity.
Then, who mothers us?
They find their own way.
We encourage their flourishing.
We cheerlead them on their path,
With the blessings
From a mother’s heart.
A mother’s heart,
Who will always
Yearn for the cuddles,
Singing together,
Giggles and play.
Because who mothers us?
And we hope,
When Larkin says
We fuck them up,
That it’s minimal,
And that they grow,
And that they flourish,
And that they thrive on their path.
Through all our hoping,
Who mothers us?
At day’s end,
Do we even notice
The child within,
Longing too to be mothered?
Our mothering,
In all its guises,
Never rests.