The Coming

The Coming

It is coming
the change all women wait for.
The passage toward the next life
away from our children
and youthful surprises.

My blood has started to speed up,
coming and going
the flood gates opening too often now
as if to drain my memory
of the pain of labor—
willing my well of crimson dry.

Just yesterday I nursed my babies,
felt the milk flow out of somewhere deep
in my bones
bringing up ancient iron ore
into their soft pink mouths,
the filter of sweet love
quivering inside each nipple.

That love is not gone,
but only waiting to find a new home,
perhaps at my collar bone
or in a smooth rib
or at the tips of my fingers
as I travel the edge of a sleeping face.

I have taken notes for years now.
Not from my mother
whose perfect little body
sighed itself shut
without at word-
save the warm waves of goodbye.

Not from her sisters—
who still speak in code about the change
and giggle at the loss of their girlish figures
to thickening thighs
and rounder curves.

My words come from others
who know how to speak of loving themselves
full into grey and brilliant mornings
of first sun on crisp sun
where each foot planted,
though sometimes slippery,
leaves a distinct mark
of gravity.

This is the story I want to tell
as my daughter watches
smiling, marveling
at what my body can still do
as it opens and awakens-
lightening the load
for the next leg of the journey home.
I will gladly hand her the map,
the legend,
and speak out loud
about the view from my side
of the horizon.