2 poems

by Lydia Ford

push and pull

The first baby born

in the hospital’s system

this year unraveled 

into the world 

while we were there 

carving an entire room out

for our grief.

First cries,

the entire sea of our mourning.

It’s a miracle 

the whole building didn’t drown

in the becoming 

and unbecoming.

Lullaby music drifted

through the speakers,

a life for a life. 

The tick tick boom

of monitors, 

the haunting whispers

of Dad’s Dilaudid haze,

murmurs of “no, no, sorry, no”

adding to the clamor 

of motherhood blooming

when it had ended for us.

Dawn comes for us all

under the same sky.

first month

It’s January 

and you’re writing your mother’s obituary,

an ode to disconnection,

the severing of the umbilical cord

strung up red and proud 

like a welcome home banner

attaching your hearts.

Grief like rebirth 

into an unfamiliar skin,

the new year unravels, 

untouched by maternal love.

You constantly ask,

how do you put 

your own mother into past tense? 

Lydia Ford is a poet based out of the beautiful state of Colorado. She has been previously published in Words Dance magazine. You can often find her in a local coffee shop, probably telling someone about the year an album was released. More of her work lives on Instagram @lydfordwrites