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Bureaucracies-a system of government in which most of the important decisions are made by state officials rather than by elected representatives.

Spindled-a slender round rod or stick with tapered ends by which thread or yarn is twisted in spinning by hand and on which it is wound

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-Motherhood

-Queendom

-Pram

-Department of Motherhood

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I crossed the border into the Republic of Motherhood

and found it a queendom, a wild queendom.

I handed over my clothes and took its uniform,

its dressing gown and undergarments, a cardigan

soft as a creature, smelling of birth and milk,

and I lay down in Motherhood's bed, the bed I had made

but could not sleep in, for I was called at once to work

in the factory of Motherhood. The owl shift,

the graveyard shift. Feeding cleaning loving feeding.

I walked home, heartsore, through pale streets,

the coins of Motherhood singing in my pockets.

Then I soaked my spindled bones

in the chill municipal baths of Motherhood,

watching strands of my hair float from my fingers.

Each day I pushed my pram through freeze and blossom

down the wide boulevards of Motherhood

where poplars bent their branches to stroke my brow.

I stood with my sisters in the queues of Motherhood –

the weighing clinic, the supermarket – waiting

for its bureaucracies to open their doors.

As required, I stood beneath the flag of Motherhood

and opened my mouth although I did not know the anthem.

When darkness fell I pushed my pram home again,

by lamp-light wrote urgent letters of complaint

to the Department of Motherhood but received no response.

I grew sick and was healed in the hospitals of Motherhood

with their long-closed isolation wards

and narrow beds watched over by a fat moon.

The doctors were slender and efficient

and when I was well they gave me my pram again

so I could stare at the daffodils in the parks of Motherhood

while winds pierced my breasts like silver arrows.

In snowfall, I haunted Motherhood's cemeteries,

the sweet fallen beneath my feet –

Our Lady of the Birth Trauma, Our Lady of Psychosis.

I wanted to speak to them, tell them I understood,

but the words came out scrambled, so I knelt instead

and prayed in the chapel of Motherhood, prayed

for that whole wild fucking queendom,

its sorrow, its unbearable skinless beauty,

and all the souls that were in it. I prayed and prayed

until my voice was a night cry,

sunlight pixellating my face like a kaleidoscope.

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-"Feeding,cleaning,loving,feeding"

-"I prayed and prayed"

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1. "and I lay down in Motherhood's bed, the bed I had made

but could not sleep in,"

2. "through freeze and blossom"

3. "As required, I stood beneath the flag of Motherhood

and opened my mouth although I did not know the anthem".

4. "wanted to speak to them, tell them I understood,

but the words came out scrambled,"

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While reading this poem I picture a young mother wandering the streets of a small town with her stroller. I picture autumn leaves and streetlights, and brisk air. The mother grim faced and empty while she pushes her babe. She walks through town, through the grocery stores, and churches trying to find solace to ease the weight on her heart. I picture a mother struggling with the weight of becoming a parent.

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While reading this poem I remember...

1. Holding my daughter, my firstborn in the hospital and being terrified that I would do something wrong. I remember strugling to nurse and her crying after being in labor for 14 hours and am emergency section. I remember how helpless and alone I felt when the nurse brought me formula because she wouldn't latch successfully.

2. I remember seeing my daughter hold her brother for the first time at only three years old. I remember being worried that I couldn't love them both the same or as much as the other. I remember feeling so relieved when my son nursed in the recovery room after he was born.

3. I remember sitting on the couch with my last child, another son and crying because it was the last time. I remember holding him close and smelling him and memorizing every wrinkle in his forehead. A blonde hair blue eyed boy who completed our family.

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I believe this poem is a lyric. There a cadence to it but not a specified uniformity.

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The speaker is educated, articulate, and uses pretty language to get her point across. She gives examples and metaphors of her mental health and her struggles of becoming a new mother, and the club of motherhood, and one which she feels she doesn't belong. The speaker uses imagery to explain and reference her pain while still giving the audience a understanding of what she is saying.

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"In snowfall, I haunted Motherhood's cemeteries,

the sweet fallen beneath my feet –

Our Lady of the Birth Trauma, Our Lady of Psychosis.

I wanted to speak to them, tell them I understood,"

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This poem is an ode to motherhood and how it can be lovely as well as devastating. This poem shows that if the reader can relate and they are also experiencing these similar feelings, they are not alone and there are other's who are walking the same path.

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A mother pushing her stroller down a street in autumn