Partial Portrait Of My Mother
Having no time to read to me,
she often did my chores. I could
curl up in the armchair, visit
Avonlea, Walnut Grove, Concord.
She didn’t read to my children,
but while I did the housework, she
pushed the double-decker stroller
to prized sandboxes, parks and swings.
Now she hires house cleaners, e-mails
grandchildren, stays awake at night
under her ninety-sixth birthday quilt
reading—reading the whole wide world.
Wild Flowers
Bloodroot blossoms when my daughter is born.
Along the rushing river banks, shoots push
through hard winter earth. Pulled by spring sun,
the blue-green lobed leaves open wide, breathe.
In a steamy old hospital room, the midwife listens,
counts loudly, heartbeat’s dropping, dropping.
I push, push, push my beautiful bloody baby out.
Hush. Dim the lights. Her eyes, huge blue, study us.
Bloodroot blossoms when my second daughter is born.
Basal leaves again uncurl in the woods
under the web of stick-branched trees.
In the birthing room of a new hospital,
the doctor counters, no stirrups, deep vein thrombosis;
don’t want her throwing a clot to the heart.
This baby comes fast, looks out, alert.
Bloodroot blossoms when my girls are born.
Pure white stars, golden orange centers.
Having no time to read to me,
she often did my chores. I could
curl up in the armchair, visit
Avonlea, Walnut Grove, Concord.
She didn’t read to my children,
but while I did the housework, she
pushed the double-decker stroller
to prized sandboxes, parks and swings.
Now she hires house cleaners, e-mails
grandchildren, stays awake at night
under her ninety-sixth birthday quilt
reading—reading the whole wide world.
Wild Flowers
Bloodroot blossoms when my daughter is born.
Along the rushing river banks, shoots push
through hard winter earth. Pulled by spring sun,
the blue-green lobed leaves open wide, breathe.
In a steamy old hospital room, the midwife listens,
counts loudly, heartbeat’s dropping, dropping.
I push, push, push my beautiful bloody baby out.
Hush. Dim the lights. Her eyes, huge blue, study us.
Bloodroot blossoms when my second daughter is born.
Basal leaves again uncurl in the woods
under the web of stick-branched trees.
In the birthing room of a new hospital,
the doctor counters, no stirrups, deep vein thrombosis;
don’t want her throwing a clot to the heart.
This baby comes fast, looks out, alert.
Bloodroot blossoms when my girls are born.
Pure white stars, golden orange centers.
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Marge Barrett has published
prose and poetry in numerous
magazines. The former editor
of River Images for the St.
Croix ArtBarn and faculty
advisor of Ivory Tower for the
University of Minnesota, she
has taught in various high
schools and colleges.
Currently living in
Minneapolis, Minnesota, she
teaches at the Loft Literary
Center.
Marge Barrett
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