The Riff of Mama D (not a Sestina)

Domestication
Messy. Mastication
Mortification. On vacation. Play-cation
Placating the fascination
Not the destination
Infatuation
With this. This Situation
This momentary vacation
Inside this singular situation
Singular, solitary
Voluntary. Voluntarily naming this moment
A Vacation
Transforming it thereby
De-forming it. Re-forming it.
Storming into the fleeting
Momentariness of it
Stabbing it Grabbing it Nabbing it
Claiming it Taming it Naming it
Mine.

LIFE, reconfigured

Life. The game-board is in disarray. Future un-spooling as the past
Rapidly fades. Time to move ahead
Though my heels drag. I’m inclined to cheat, not count out spaces but jump
Around on a whim, move in and out of time
A quick flash back to newborn breath on my neck will provide
The needed fix without dwelling in the land of sleepless nights. I will move

At my own pace. I study the board; new options, and I am hesitant to move.
To launch the next phase is to leave baby-making in the past.
What next for me? My job for so long to create, nurture. My body to provide
All they need to thrive. Success! They are primed to move ahead
To casually proclaim the end of my reign. It may be time
To move on. So says the math of passing seasons that demands a forward jump.

For if we are to keep playing we must go on to the next square. Jump
From feedings and naptime schedules. On paper it makes sense to move
On. Look at the ease with which I leap into the car empty handed! In no time
At all I gather our little crew and off we go. We soar past
Parents juggling bags of diapers and bottles. We’re eons ahead
Even so, the tidy black and white of the board does not provide

The whole picture, only lopsided financials. How much it takes to provide
For them. What resources will be drained if we casually jump
Back into bed without planning ahead
And that is not our way. We plan our every move
Eyes bent on seeing the future, but the sweet scent of the past
Smells like the new skin of my babies’ necks. I want to savor that time

Before the decisive cut severs forever that link, yet in no time
It is done. He rests on the couch and I bring soup and an ice pack. Things I can provide
To help him recover quickly, but what about me? I shuffle the kids past
With a lame explanation of why they can’t jump
On Daddy. Why he must take care not to move
Off the couch. Still I struggle against moving ahead.

I am anxious about the territory that looms ahead
Shirts will be outgrown, teeth loosen and fall and announce: indeed it is time!
The children are impatient and always on the move
And so I go with them to provide
A hand to hold and kisses for inevitable bumps. It’s bittersweet: they jump
Fearlessly into each new phase while I mark the distance traveled, leaving babies in the past

Each bold move drives them ahead
I need not dwell in the past. Sweet moments pepper restless time
I need only provide a secure platform from which they can jump