Mom looks at me sometimes as if she feels
labor and its complexities once more.
Does she? I was her second, so she knew
what to expect, just not who would come.
Back then, gender remained a mystery
until cards arrived saying “It’s a girl!”
Once, hypnotized into regression, I
heard from the womb “I hope that it’s a girl.”
Even my older brother felt delight
as photos show in fading black and white.
When I was seven, she did it again:
expanded and disappeared and returned.
So tired, so tired, grinning with bundled
baby in her and dad’s protective arms.
When she sees me, do I appear
bundle of love or labor over years?
For my prompt:
My blog poems are rough drafts.
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