As a New Mother

By Sandra Tyler

​                 

most of me was shed, swept away by wind.
My newborn cried and my

viscera glistened. He slept on my chest
and I breathed his breath, the rest of my old life

blown off thistle, feathery airborne.
 

It was enough to watch him —
at six months, fist a tiny rock

like gripping the world. At seven, barefoot 
through our bamboo; in our kitchen window

I’m collaged shadow, ever since most of me was shed,

swept away by wind. It was enough to watch him

grow up; how full up I felt in my hollow.
Til bits of me came crowding back: at nine
he ran away. I hate you, he wailed, stomping

 
down our crumbling walk. For a cracked-glass

moment, I didn’t care. Those bits wheedling

for a space to call their own.