All posts filed under: Poetry

depressions of symptom

If I ever become an acclaimed writer, I’d worry about the interviews because I don’t know many words. I don’t speak well. The interviewer might ask me about motherhood. I don’t know what I’d say because I don’t mother well. I stay in bed until it’s time for my child to eat and bathe. I tell them to eat and bathe from my bed. Doorbell eviction bell baby wipe showers. sheetsmattressconcaveprison. thesheetsrecyclemystink. sheetsdriedmenstruation. thesheetsaremyplate. Mush inside chrysalis, I hope. Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider becoming a sustaining member to help us remain ad-free. Invest in amplifying the voices of Black, Asian, Latine(x), Indigenous and other parents of color at our many intersections. Tiers start at $5/month and reflect your financial comfort.

Convergence

By Atena O. Danner

For the neurodivergent parents of neurodivergent kids I didn’t come here to tell you I love my kids. I came here to suck and spit venom. Have you ever looked down to see an arrow of your own making sticking out of your chest? That’s the job. I drag myself to the edge of the battlefield to pull these arrows out through the other side. I have been paying myself first, but honestly? I am hanging on by a tenuous spider’s thread. My responsibilities have sucked all the stone out of my bones and the meat from my muscles; Brittle I scrape across the ground; spite and stubbornness are the heaviest things I can carry are what hold me to the ground. The only fuel I have to toss into this engine is the compressed mineral of rage. Because there is nowhere to put this! Because I get shocked snatching you back from live wires Because I had to jump on the grenade you unlocked Because you start fights that I have to finish Because …

De luto y sin dopamina

By Li Yun Alvarado

When I’m knee deep in laundry and memories, no one bothers with my title: Chief Executive Home Officer. I juggle dishes, schedules, control top yoga pants, the nursling. What this organization lacks in goals and long term strategic plans it makes up for in naps and races against time. Llora el bebe. Suena la lavadora. Separo el tiempo como ropa sucia. Días interminables. Mi memoria gira como tu, Papito. Bailabas espontaneidad. ¿Planes? ¡Ja! ¿Qué te importaba ese título: “Director Ejecutivo de Tu Vida”? En el caos se goza, ¿no? La organización, que espere otro día Mami, me decías. Todo bajo control. Laundry diagnoses me. So simple. So out of control: Load after boring load. Week after boring week. Time sorts, sets, starts, spins, shakes, stores. Disorganized suds dance in damp drum. Who needs working memory? Me, laundering for four, that’s who. Imaginary executive assistant brightens my daydreams. She knows how to plan. Me pierdo. Estabas y ya no estás. Papito, tantos planes sin cumplir. Tantos pasajes sin comprar. Nada bajo control. Todos ayudamos. Me encargue …

Creativity Interrupted

By Alison Jones

Read three sentences, check my email Oh that’s a good idea, I’d better write it down it’s too quiet Rush down the stairs Everything is ok this time “Can I have some tape?” Searching for the masking tape in the closet. Found it Not in the tape box, but hooked around a jar of crunchy peanut butter Decide to finish making the hazelnut thumbprint cookies Think about writing this poem of creativity interrupted by motherhood Motherhood as a creative Creativity as a person with ADHD All three things existing chaotically inside of one person The swirl of the chocolate forming a kiss on top “Mom, I can’t do it!” Look at what the middle is doing, paper folded into a homemade envelope Oh crap, he’s knocked over the water The only thing I didn’t clear off the table from the afternoon snack, But the tablecloth had stains from the turmeric latte he had spilled earlier in the day, And hot chocolate stains from where the middle knocked over her cup during snack time, So it …

Lucky Draw

By Preeti Vangani

Not sure what’s more embarrassing, that at fourteen I still lusted for stuffed animals or that mum’s target at the claw machine was way better than mine. Precise as threading a needle, she’d push the steel arm straight into the heart of the stuffed pit, wait, sipping Pepsi, hand on hip, sure as a cowboy. Once, her single turn brought back not one but two animals — a spotted panther and a long-tailed squirrel. Unlike their real-life avatars, the two never escaped my sight. But she did. 44 then gone. God plucks some of us away randomly, the priest said. Walking home that night, her wins tucked under my arm, I trotted ahead, curious and jealous, asked — how is your aim so good? She shrugged, caught up, tightening her grip around my wrist. As if I was the one prize she wanted. Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider making a one-time or recurring contribution to help us remain ad-free. If even a fraction of subscribers signed up to contribute $1 …