Memory Like Skin

I was a mother once, twice.
I remember the flutter, the kick
that morphed to heartburn
and silly waddle, preceding
myself in a skin-encased package
of secret world behind inward smile.

I played music, Berlioz, Beatles,
Lady Day, thinking you listen now.
I fed you calcium, protein,
and myself fear, anticipating,
flying between joy unbridled,
terror barely leashed until

an alien sensation. Peeing but not.
Oh God. My water broke and hours
hours hours trembling, straining
against my contorted self, vomiting
from a tiny compressed stomach.

Grandma stood by the bed. Mema,
they said don't push, but
my whole body screams for it,

and her dead fifteen years, but
she smiled at me, and I knew
she came back just the once
to say Chavala, women survive.

I remember. Yes, I remember this
pain, blood, tears, sweating
with my knees against my chin
until once, twice a creature
laid at my breast in untenable
love that obliterates memory,
blossoms like miles of flowers
opening at once.

They never close. I am still
a mother. It cannot be taken.