Birthday poems
I wanted to write something romantic in my husband's birthday card. It's his first birthday since we got married and I just want to write something in the vein of how much I love and admire him.
For your troubles, here's a poem that I've been obsessed with lately:
Evolution in Nine Parts
1
My earliest memories of my mother
are sunburned. Pink cheeks.
Braids. Dirt under fingernails.
2
Before me, she was already self-conscious
about her stomach. Then I was made and I was too stubborn
to turn upside down inside her and they had to
cut her open and pull me out.
3
I learned how to put on lipstick
by watching her get ready for work
in the morning.
I learned how to criticize myself
by watching her cluck at the mirror,
swatting her hair down like a bad dog.
4
I am sorry for the white worm
I left across your middle.
5
She believes my sisters and I chose her
to be our mother. Handpicked her
from a basket of others.
This one. This one will teach us the most.
6
Learn to cherish this vessel,
the tired music of the body.
Let the skin be witness.
To grow. To grow.
7
I am standing in front of a mirror.
I am insulting myself out of habit
and suddenly my mother stops me,
“don’t say that, Sierra. If you think you are ugly,
you are creating that ugliness inside you.”
8
I am thankful for the bed in your belly.
I was a weary traveler.
9
My mother has a birthmark
the size of a grapefruit on her hip.
It is red and exploding.
I can only imagine
when she undressed for my father
the first time, it was like
watching the sun come up.
Sierra DeMulder
For your troubles, here's a poem that I've been obsessed with lately:
Evolution in Nine Parts
1
My earliest memories of my mother
are sunburned. Pink cheeks.
Braids. Dirt under fingernails.
2
Before me, she was already self-conscious
about her stomach. Then I was made and I was too stubborn
to turn upside down inside her and they had to
cut her open and pull me out.
3
I learned how to put on lipstick
by watching her get ready for work
in the morning.
I learned how to criticize myself
by watching her cluck at the mirror,
swatting her hair down like a bad dog.
4
I am sorry for the white worm
I left across your middle.
5
She believes my sisters and I chose her
to be our mother. Handpicked her
from a basket of others.
This one. This one will teach us the most.
6
Learn to cherish this vessel,
the tired music of the body.
Let the skin be witness.
To grow. To grow.
7
I am standing in front of a mirror.
I am insulting myself out of habit
and suddenly my mother stops me,
“don’t say that, Sierra. If you think you are ugly,
you are creating that ugliness inside you.”
8
I am thankful for the bed in your belly.
I was a weary traveler.
9
My mother has a birthmark
the size of a grapefruit on her hip.
It is red and exploding.
I can only imagine
when she undressed for my father
the first time, it was like
watching the sun come up.
Sierra DeMulder