pyrrha, new mother

By: Elliot Mevissen

 

aftermath: the last

of the rain is slipping

off of battered leaves.

 

stooped next to me, hands scrabbling,

he roots through the gravel for the seeds

and sows his children without looking.

the stone in my hand asks,

with all the warmth of the trembling sun,

to place her feet for the first time

on this new ground.

 

when it would rain my mother

sat at the door until the storm passed

and we’d run into the garden

without shoes and the grass

would stick to my legs.

now she cries for the mistakes she made

before she knew any better.

 

i will bend and break the earth;

i will mother these daughter-rocks

into new life, but

 

when i fling them from my palms

will they only feel my footsteps

forever walking away?

 

i am still swallowing all of

my mother’s apologies

for raising me so poorly.

 

and still my husband’s feet press forward

into mud and reeds and our legacy.

so i lift my head. throw my daughters

into being. the sun bites

at the back of my calves

and i press my lips

to every single smooth stone

before i send them spiraling away.