Hands on hip, baby,
sketchbook. Diapering, drawing,
birthing creation.
Women artists
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Hands on hip, baby,
sketchbook. Diapering, drawing,
birthing creation.
Hands on hip, baby,
sketchbook. Diapering, drawing,
birthing creation.
Now she has time to
blow dry her hair while I rub
away sleep, then drive.
Being green we use
fabric bags old boxes to
wrap gifts. No trees die.
My door open, but
the rooms are empty, thoughts like
forgotten relics.
Can days be merry
and bright? Jobs – like ornaments –
fragile, out of reach.
Has it really been
a month since I told you all
about my day, dear?
Earthworms emerge, splayed
across sidewalks, tender skin
snags on rough concrete.
An adult blankie.
To take one from its owner
will make grown men cry.
Hunched and hobbling I
move as if years older, a
taste of what’s to come.
Incrementally
I clean unearthing a clear
space on the table.