after James Hearst
It is Mother’s Day and I will mother.
Growing from me through the ribbon
of nutrient rich blood,
the transient organ I grew for you.
Irises like depression glass
under fully formed lids,
climbing, babbling growing good.
For necessity is the mother of invention,
and juniper the mother of gin,
I am the mother of the tiny head,
the author of the mouth turning to nurse
dividing makes new cells,
cells make new humans,
humanity as chronic condition.
Mortality the bill owed for birth,
bestowed like blessing and curse.
I am a mother; I will knit the stars together
give her fingers with wrinkles drawn on for effect.
I, as mother-noun, as mother-verb, gift this body.
By Tiffany Grayson