I wrote a handful of poems (and countless letters) while pregnant. I have decided to share a couple that I feel comfortable sharing here. I have also written and published a poem about the boys I birthed in the collection “Under a Blushing Sky”.
Baby.
Little Mister.
My miracle.
(Never an accident, never a mistake,
an unexpected twist
of fate,
but the road of life
is always circuitous,
always winding.)
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
your daddy asked.
Before I knew,
we guessed
you to be a boy.
(Who knew we’d be right?)
We cried over you
so many nights
(never an accident,
never a mistake,
always a miracle).
We love you with such strength,
such ferocity.
We’re in love
with you
since Day 1,
since the test came back
saying “yes”,
since the first ultrasound
where we looked at your tiny little toes
and studied your tiny little fingers
and watched
(scrutinized) your tiny little wave.
(Your silly little wave I now emulate
to your daddy
to make him chuckle-
hand plastered to your tiny little forehead,
tiny little fingers poking out and wiggling.)
The technician said,
“It looks like he’s trying
to give you the Loser sign.”
(Your index finger and thumb in the shape of an L
on your forehead.)
I said,
“That’s his daddy in him,”
and laughed a little bit.
I’d be lying
if I didn’t say
I cried a little bit
too.
Little Mister.
I’d be lying
if I didn’t say
I’m crying.
I’m crying
a lot
right now.
Daddy and I talked
to you.
I wrote you letters.
(Daddy used to laugh
because I wanted to make a plaster
of my stomach
and have you crawl into it
for pictures-
a baby in a bowl.
I wanted to paint it with you
eventually.)
Daddy held me
and held underneath my big tummy
(big with you)
like it was a prize
in a Cracker Jack box.
He’d hold you and talk to you.
Just know we’ve loved you all along.
Upon Seeing You for the First Time
Upon seeing you,
I know my heart will skip a beat.
Upon seeing you,
I know my heart will grow weak.
I fell in love
with you
from the start.
(Your hand cupped around my lone finger,
your eyes staring beseechingly
into my own.)
Some days,
I go through these photographs we took
and laugh.
Some days,
I cry.
I can’t believe how much
I miss you.
Lightning Strikes Twice
I remember the first time I saw you
my heart beat like a fist pounding
against my breastbone.
I feared you wouldn’t love me,
I feared you wouldn’t trust me.
(You were swaddled in her arms,
and she was your protector.)
The moments in the hospital room
with you nuzzled into my chest
were sacred,
but here you were,
bald, fat, beautiful.
I had created something lovely.
Something that I couldn’t crumple
or throw in the trash can.
(Something so lovely,
you were never a mistake
like a badly written poem
or an unforgiving chapter one.)
Your eyes were gray brown,
they assured me they’d darken with time,
but I hoped they wouldn’t darken
with sadness or hurt.
(I wanted to protect you from the hurricanes
that had destroyed my faith in humanity.
I wanted to shelter you from the fears
that made me shudder when I tried to sleep.)
It was a moment frozen when I walked into
your life once more.
It had scarcely been a month,
but you astounded me.
You were a gift to all,
but a surprise to me.
I half-expected you to inherit
his smirk,
his swirly eyes,
his intimidating nature.
(Instead you cooed and laughed
and smiled like new babies do.
You smelled as sweet as baby powder,
and my own tears surprised me.)
I never thought I could create something
beautiful.
I never thought I could create something
lovely.
(But sometimes,
lightning does strike twice.)
Isabelle Palerma 