Poem for My Sons (Friday Poetry Blogging)

I'm a little early, but surely it's already Friday somewhere (and Phantom has already gotten a little jump on FPB anyway. I had a Wallace Stevens poem in mind for this week, but a lot of the adoption blogging I've been reading made me think back to Crime Against Nature, Minnie Bruce Pratt's excellent volume of poems addressing, in part, her reaction to the loss of her sons. In a wretched divorce, she lost custody of her sons because of her lesbianism. In "Down the Little Cahaba," she writes:

Years back, at the beach, with piles of shells
In our laps, with the first final separation on us,
One asked: How do we know you won’t forget us?

I told them how they had moved in my womb: each
Distinct, the impatient older, the steady younger.
I said: I can never forget you. You moved inside me.

I meant: The sound of your blood crossed into mine.

*******************************************************************************
I've been thinking about the ways mother/child bonds are formed, tested, broken, stretched, repaired, restored. Without further ado, her "Poem for My Sons":

When you were born, all the poets I knew
were men, dads eloquent on their sleeping
babes and the future: Coleridge at midnight,
Yeats' prayer that his daughter lack opinions,
his son be high and mighty, think, and act.
You've read the new father's loud eloquence,
fiery sparks written in a silent house
breathing with the mother's exhausted sleep.

When you were born, my first, what I thought was
milk: my breasts sore, engorged, but not enough
when you woke. With you, my youngest, I did not
think: my head unraised for three days, mind-dead
from waist-down anesthetic labor, saddle
block, no walking either.
from waist-down anesthetic labor,Your father was then
the poet I'd ceased to be when I got married.
It's taken me years to write this to you.

I had to make a future, willful, voluble, lascivious, a thinker, a long walker,
unstruck transgressor, furious, shouting,
voluptuous, a lover, a smeller of blood,
milk, a woman mean as she can be some nights,
existence I could pray to, capable of
poetry.
from waist-downNow here we are. You are men,
and I am not the woman who rocked you
in the sweet reek of penicillin, sour milk,
the girl who could not imagine herself
or a future more than a warm walled room,
had no words but the pap of the expected,
and so, those nights, could not wish for you.

But now I have spoken, my self, I can ask
for you: that you'll know evil when you smell it;
that you'll know good and do it, and see how both
run loose through your lives; that then you'll remember
you come from dirt and history; that you'll choose
memory, not anesthesia; that you'll have work
you love, hindering no one, a path crossing
at boundary markers where you question power;
that your loves wll match you thought for thought
in the long heat of blood and fact of bone

Words not so romantic nor so grandly tossed
as if I'd summoned the universe to be
at your disposal.
as if I'd summoned thI can only pray:

That you'll never ask for the weather, earth,
angels, women, or other lives to obey you;

that you'll remember me, who crossed, recrossed
you,

that youas a woman making slowly toward
an unknown place where you could be with me,
like a woman on foot, in a long stepping out.

friday poetry blogging