Golden Yolk

Honestly, I was a mess.

Tears round the clock

except when I got some rest.

Salt lined the edges,

gathered into monumental crystals

living in a different biome

too humid and too hot.

It was hard carrying you and a tot.

Every day, you grew and grew.

A blueberry, a cucumber, an eggplant—

eventually the size of a melon too.

You borrowed all you could:

my eyes, my teeth, my brain

the color of my hair,

the lines on my face.

I wondered if you took my sadness too.

If, through blood, you could taste my despair.

And instead of bouncing with laughter,

you were rocked with sobbing.

And instead of lullabies and sweet dreams,

you got monologues and soft pleadings.

Thank the big man in the sky

delivered you in a golden yolk

pushed by the midas touch

your own smile, a certain giggle,

the light in your coffee cup orbs.

My daily happy pill.

I would prescribe you for a lifetime.

My first made me a mom

but you made me a mother.