The Women

We look to the mothers of mothers

to hold the weight of the memory

that death and birth are locked together

in the merciless gears that grind out life.

 

This child not yet

is not an equation to be calculated

but the alchemy of spirit and courage,

the tenacity of life that endures all struggle.

 

This small fleshy seed must first survive

the war zone of a mother’s body,

Find nourishment in the midst of commotion.

 

The girl so suddenly named mother must survive

the assault of this stranger entering through her

seemingly from another world.

 

Until finally, recognition.

You see yourself cradled against your breast,

alive with the gift of contradiction.

 

3-1-2022

Popcorn Belly

Popcorn flutters grow in my belly,

dance to the rhythm

of my breath, my blood, my movement;

you knock softly at first, waiting for an answer.

Soon, you will grow impatient

no longer satisfied with hearing shadows,

ever more insistent to see the world beyond.

You know without knowing,

the urgency of the journey

upon which you are about to embark.

I hold the breadth of my belly

as I feel you talking to me;

I dance to your tiny rhythm,

throw back my head, and laugh.

©1999 Donna Jo Wallace

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Poet's Note: Here's a little non-sequitur shared from the year that I was pregnant. I loved being pregnant. dw

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Strawberry Pie

We do not speak ill of the dead.

You will not say what Grandpa did to you,

even if it is true.

Mother to daughter

the crime goes on.

Remarkable, really – clever, almost

how he got his own victims to keep his secret,

even after he was gone.

still …

Furtive voices among the clamor, family reunion.

Tendrils of truth pass between women,

words spoken between slices of strawberry pie:

It really happened and I believe you.

The story is heard in pieces and bits

Told in stops and starts, glances and silences

Over time, by different players

We have conversations about conversations,

Wonder aloud what has never been spoken

did it happen to her too? we’ll never know.

when, what did you know? oh no, not the little ones,

cousins, at least a few - have you asked your sister?

it would explain some things …

But we were a happy family.

No, it didn’t happen to me, except …

the hands, a back rub, a wrong feeling, just once in a while.

Yes, yes - my aunt says - he had wandering hands.

Another generation passed, your secret has gone rancid

and our family tree is spitting out your silent perversion

in poisonous, adult-sized problems.

And I,
I have something to tell my daughter …

©2016 Donna Jo Wallace

Bubbles

Rainbows float across the breeze,

Small spheres of wonder.

It’s the last little bubble I love the most

Her arms waving, her laughter rising

As surely as the spheres she follows.

Spontaneously she reaches for the sticky magic

of these small rainbow spheres

Never doubting the magic that is hers

if she can only catch one.

But she never can, quite,

So she tries again and again

Again and again

Some leave their mark, wet and sticky on her hands,

And some drift free, above, take flight.

And I . . . love to make it happen

To cast my magic wand

To see her dance

To the music of bubbles.

©2006 Donna Jo Wallace.