4 poems inspired by the prompt "Stolen" Day 5. PAD (Poetic Asides)

Four and a half months 

On an April afternoon filled with sunlight

I painted my kitchen with bright yellow enamel

thought I felt The Universe smiling upon me –

Until she crept into the day, stealing buried treasure

Stolen: at four and a half months into an unaware 

childbearing - My tiny daughter, snatched, though 

I never knew for certain she was a girl, I felt her –

Felt her trapped in a Fallopian Faustian horror – 

could see her, caught, captured and squeezed, 

beating her miniature fists and feet on closing walls – 

A well intentioned and sweetly Catholic friend-of-the-

family surgeon – assured me when I awoke with –

one tube and no child to be – assured me smiling 

gently that the child had been perfect – compounding 

the theft – demolishing any this-is-for-the-best peace 

of mind – successfully twinning grief and guilt 

grief and guilt – at my inability to keep her safe. 

I stayed on the maternity floor listening to the 

unstolen infants –my daughter’s future colleagues. 

That Autumn – the Universe called again – yet again just

at four and one half months – of a newly anointed child-

to-be - One I felt fluttering breasts strokes and somersaults

within my womb – In a gush of blood more blindingly bright

than any seen before or since …the theft began - again – 

A short time later – gowned and bedded – a student nurse 

at my side – I felt the slip slide of my child whoosh from me 

as its soul danced somewhere 

beyond my puny understanding. 

I believe the Universe is kind and often smiles upon me as on

all others and yet, and yet. 

I know Her other face and name from long, long ago –

Thief.   

Freely given 

I never had a kiss stolen

or a watch or wallet - 

nothing of that sort

 all that flew away 

from me - 

was given - 

either directly 

before or after

the fact - but..

time ... time..

lately there has

been Time which

I have allowed to

slip -  stolen only

by my magnificent

arrogant negligence

of its importance and

so I return - calming 

this pounding heart

for moments, months,

years that have no re-

clamation and avow to

be more mind-full

now and ever 

more

as the

clock 

ticks

stolen? 

his first laugh and the gales that followed

the way he pulled himself up and stood on

two feet, ten toes unrecognizable to me, 

the flash of new teeth pushing through 

the color his eyes became after newborn days

his third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth,

ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, 

fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth,

eighteenth, nineteenth, twentieth, twenty-first, 

twenty-second, months. 

the delight of recognition in his eyes 

when he sees me

and reaches up

for a hug

this first-born

grandson -

six minutes

in geography

and an infinite

abyss of un-

explained

unrelenting

banishment

away. 

Stolen?

I'd say.

Grown and Flown Away – Matricide in modernity 

(a clumsy stab at a vilanelle) 

My son has grown and flown away

His ringtone silent, long now still

There is he says nothing more to say

He lives behind an enmity of gray

Beyond all pleadings, talk and why and will

My son has grown and flown away 

Cast me as though dead each day

I cannot revoke love nor maternity

There is nothing more to say 

Why is it that the words still play

In ever thronging bonging possibility 

My son has grown and flown away 

Posits and poetry flutter and lay 

He cannot read what he will not see

There is I suppose nothing more to say 

What would the Oracle say of this modern matricidal display

Irrevocable, inviolable love blood borne by him - incredibly

My son. My son has grown and somehow flown away 

It simply cannot be that there is nothing more to say