With every annum, every bliss
expressed by some mother other than me,
I wish I were the blind girl,
oblivious to the dark clouds behind
every birth, privy only to a child’s understanding
of what it means to bear and be born. Instead,
every gory story accordions out before me
like a stack of books on my lap
reminding me that this body has its limits,
that parenthood can take less bloody forms
but no less scorn for lapses in love.
You know what I’m saying, blind girl.
To hear only the birds and the creek
and the happily bleating sheep
requires no courage; to see storms
is to fear the rainbows are not enough.
Caitlin M.S. Buxbaum
Caitlin M.S. Buxbaum is a writer and artistic Jane-of-all-trades from Wasilla, Alaska. She has a Master of Arts in Teaching and a B.A. in English and Japanese Studies, and is also an MFA candidate at Antioch University LA. She currently publishes books through Red Sweater Press and serves as President of Alaska Writers Guild.
The Ekphrastic Review
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