Prior to having my daughter, poetry was a soup I could simmer in at great lengths. Some days creativity was a smorgasbord which I chewed slowly, other days, ideas were served up from a literary drive thru window from which I plucked out the contents and swiftly turned them into a snack of snazzy similes. It was gluttonous and wonderful. I was un-tethered to the demands of a baby. My creative juices seemed dry up the moment I saw my daughter on the ultrasound screen; her nine week old body, little more than a bundle of cells  that resembled a chicken on my print out.

I was hypnotized by my pregnancy. The poems flew south it seemed. I imagined them trapped in my placenta with everything else the baby was ransacking from me. I was consumed with birth plans, nursery palates, and food. Pregnancy made me an airhead, and I feared the poems would never return. The absence of any literary mojo lingered after she was born, what with my hour of sleep, colic, and the blue monster of post-partum hiding in the corner, threatening to pull me under completely.

I wrote the following poem during my maturity leave. It is addressed to my husband, who reminded me often during the early days to write. He understood that the poems were not gone. I had just written the loveliest nine month poem a woman can ever write, creating a child.

 

 

The Sound Love Makes

 

Outside the rocks are slick from afternoon rain.

Clouds are resting their humid hindquarters upon our roof.

You have reminded me to write today,

which reminds me why I married you.

Inside our baby is plump with ambition.

She blooms right here in our living room;

where storms once seduced me,

with the sound a poem makes as it falls from the sky.

Today the house brims over with squeals.

Whistles, chimes, tinkles and rings,

all chirping from their plastic nests.

teething screams collide with a duet of hollering dogs;

Our love song for this flimsy first year.

We argue over green beans and thermostats.

Because our bodies are stripped of long enough naps

and frequent enough baths.

You come home

arms full of groceries,

work still stuffed in your pockets.

Your eyes find mine where we share an unspoken exchange of the day’s outcome.

The vacuum moans the baby to sleep in the squeaky swing.

Each appliance spits out a jingle or a beep.

Clocking out for the day,

The dishes are clean.

The white are done.

The oven sticks out its crispy tongue.

Our dinner is quick.

Our embraces, a side dish often forgotten

But here in this house that swells with symphonies,

The wonderment of the arrival of this life pushes against my heart

My mind, full of lullabies vibrates wildly.

Sleep is an animal we rarely capture, or even name anymore

We lie tangled inside the tsunami slumber of the sound machine

Our bodies folded into a prayer to makes us brave enough to do it again tomorrow.

 

 

I am more interested in the snapshot of my life that the poem captures than I am in the poetic elements. It is not my best piece technically, however, it feels honest and clumsy, which is how I felt in those early days.

At sixteen months, my daughter is becoming more independent. I am discovering a new relationship with myself as well as with writing. Motherhood isn’t linear, and neither is writing. I’ve had to devote to becoming creative with making more time to write. The art of interrupted focus, being present for the mundane as well as the extraordinary, and finding inspiration from fellow mothers and writers—these are my writing intentions for the New Year. More important than ample time for my craft, is that tenacious sense of urgency to witness myself and the world through writing. Why not store them up and tuck them away to marinate in the hub of my life, the diaper bag.

 

Bio:

Jennifer Albrecht can be found writing a poem while changing a diaper, shaping metaphors while giving facials in a spa in Las Vegas, NV, and whirling together wild stories while being dragged around by her goofy Labradors. Her work has appeared in Minerva Rising’s Mothers Issue, From the Depths, The Silver Compass and The Red Rock Review.