Writer Between Worlds

each time 
a child is born, three people 
are born: not only the baby, 
bloody, fresh out of its womb; 
but a mother and a father are born from 
the woman + lover and the man + lover that 
existed before. 
from now on, they shall leave their "ways" behind 
and get lost and 
stop being people and become 
roles: mom and dad. 
culprits, defendants - they shall be judged 
harshly. and sentenced. and flayed. 
bruised and battered they shall emerge: 
two responsible "parents", 
for the child's world will rest on their shoulders. 
they shall put their egos aside and visit them 
stealthily and 
in silence, 
for the world is heavy 
and watching 
and the parents shall walk clothed in worry 
and guilt with a dollop of 
shame and contrition and 
pride. 
but underneath it all 
they're still so imperfect - 
frail, clueless, heart throbbing and yearning - 
still just two humans, 
bloody, 
fresh out of wombs themselves. 



P.S. My mother-in-law would have turned 76 today. Her children were everything to her. But a mother is forever alone. No child can quench a mother's thirst for love. I wrote this poem in her honor and in honor of my dead father.