by Amanda Hope
Cuckoo’s son is the best I’ll do;
No egg I lay ever comes to hatch.
His yawn is bigger than my head.
He is need and I answer—
Beguiling creature, all mothergone.
Sometimes I fear I hear her wings at night,
Rend ready, if I should fail, if she should
Whim. Stockholm. I tell myself,
This is family, all unplanned and nerved.
One day the low hum of her always threat
Will be gone. Can I wish it, to be safe
To mother only silence once again.