Motherhood

Motherhood

Motherhood

Suppose I emptied my flat of everything,
everything but my books? The elephants
would have to go. They’d be the first to go
– being the youngest – and the last, the plants
perhaps, relics of early motherhood.
I’d keep the piano, all my files and photos.

I’d keep my grandmother’s chest to keep my photos
in, in and not on top of, everything
swept absolutely clear of motherhood.
Nothing shall move: no herd of elephants
proceed down my mantel-piece, spider-plants
produce babies, carpets moths, moths shall go

into the ether where all bad spells go.
I’m sick of the good. Of drooling over photos
that lie, lie, lie, breaking my back over plants
for whom – Oh! for whom? Not everything
I thought green greened. Not even elephants
consoled me for the bane of motherhood.

Therefore motherhood must go. Motherhood
must go as quietly as prisoners go
and all her things go with her, elephants
troop behind her, tapestries drown her, photos –
OK photos can stay but everything
dust-collecting goes the way of the plants.

Everything shall live in name only. Plants
now extinct shall be extolled, motherhood
shall be blessed but not mothers, everything
everywhere being their fault though they go
to the dock protesting, producing photos
of happy toddlers, citing elephants,

rashly, as preceptors since elephants,
however vicious they may be to plants
or photographers with blinding flash photos,
are the very model of motherhood.
Such are the myths of nature. They shall go.
There shall be room, time, space, for everything:

room in the wild for elephants and plants,
time to go rummaging a chest for photos,
space for everything cleared of motherhood.



Reproduced by kind permission of the author and Carcanet.