Imaginary Love Song
For A Very Real Girl
On Sunday I was tired of being a mother. I wanted
someone to take over; to wipe my daughters'
faces, replace my son's quick mouth with a silk
blue bow. After dinner, I snuck off and hid in the
basement. I pretended to be your sister. I imagined
your small feet padding the stairs, your sugary
body wrapped in flannel. It was Christmas Eve,
and I'd stolen the presents from under the sharp
pine tree. And I was tucked behind the stack. It
was my birthday and I was tired of seeing presents
with other peoples' names on them. And I heard
you on the other side of the foil Santas and holly
berry leaves, and I could even hear you smiling
(because your heart always joins in) and it is a
sound that I can only imagine was the sound I
heard when I was still inside my mother. When all
I could do was sleep and dream and dream of her--
my mother--who was strong enough to leave me.
You must have heard what I was thinking, because
instead of dismantling the gift pile, you squirreled
your way behind it. And the thirty-three candles in
my heart lit up and we laid together, cold and
shining. Two soft spoons in a welcome dark.
The above loveliness was sent to me on my birthday and I spontaneously combusted.
Poet, mother, shaman, zebracorn, Rachel Mckibbens, lowhumcrush, my faithful wife in a previous life, the apple of my eye, the heat of my night, the raider of my lost arc has finally released a book, Pink Elephant, which is available for purchase here. My copy came in today, and I have to take the pages at intervals, it is so potent and haunting and tragically beautiful. You should have it, to test your heart out.