There is a garden of children around me,
little tulip mouths and soft dirt-covered stems
they flutter at my feet, call me by my newest name.
They find their father in his workshop.
They learn the smell the metal and listen to the sound
of one kind of creation. They follow me to the garden
to see another. Currants and lilac; vines of tomato,
They pick me a smattering of the ripest ones,
their bare feet stamping down the grass,
their tiny fingernails caked in warm dirt.
The faces at my table hand me
back their plates, show me
their always open hands,
their spongey brains and hearts
that are never full enough,
all clamoring: please, more.
I am overflowing, so ready to give
I would happily open a vein.
Our house has room to stretch, pockets of space to hold
all the treasure they collect.
The floors are sticky.
The coffee table is scuffed, nicked,
and cluttered with books.
The windows are all open.
There is so much light.
Shannon Curtin is a 2014 Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of two collections of poetry, Motherland (Anchor and Plume Press), and File Cabinet Heart (ELJ Publications). Her writing has been featured in a variety of literary magazines including Mothers Always Write, The Muddy River Review, The Mom Egg Review, and The Elephant Journal. She holds an MBA, competitive shooting records, and her liquor. You can find her at www.ablogofherown.wordpress.com.