Mother Loved Me First, And Mourned Me Longest.

You were dreaming about me,

About my abrupt decline,

Beet red, ready to be born.

 

You felt my weak pulse –

Weaker than yours was.

We were both strained, the effort

Of our own breathing, the thought

Of the open, too much for us.

My brother,

Mother loved me first.

Sunday, 10:30am, you’re all grown  –

 

Your kitchen phone is a lazy alarm.

Today you woke,

Curled in my footprint,

Drifting in my wake.

My dear brother,

You’d have never been the son.

 

You come alive, conceived in my absence,

Stoked from my martyr’s embers.

My brother,

Mother loved me first,

And mourned me longest.

11 thoughts on “Mother Loved Me First, And Mourned Me Longest.

    1. Thank you for the sincere comment. My mother had a miscarriage, a little boy, before she had me. It’s strange to think about, but that would have completed her two child family, and barring some mistake, I’d have never been. I nearly didn’t make it either, and I feel like maybe he took a bullet for me – swallowing up some of the bad luck that would have been my end. It was something I never really thought about ’till the other morning. Thanks again. Hope all is well.

  1. I can relate to this. The feeling of disillusionment, what “could have been” vs. “what is” must be disheartening, but perhaps with absence, we can recognize the gems that currently exist.

    Great work.

  2. Poems like this one that strike so close to the heart and the spirit pose questions for which there are no real answers, I’ve decided. You are obviously a brave spirit who is not afraid to look deeply within and try to find answers, and I salute you for that. The truth is that there are tragedies in life, and tragedies have consequences that have so many facets that a fractal would not be able to reflect them all. This does what poetry should do: Go to the heart to discover meanings that would otherwise never see the light of day.

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