The Patron Saint of Young Mothers

(after Chelsea Coreen)

She is hot cocoa in mid-July and late to work again

Because cravings don’t keep time

She is a middle finger to those who cast glares of judgment

Fire from her belly, rising to her throat – a tongue that will burn it all down

Sometimes she laughs inappropriately,

usually after hearing some thirty-something croon over her belly,

advising her on “The Joys of Pregnancy” and “What to Expect When You’re Expecting”

An emotional sinkhole, tears cascading at random but often after hearing co-workers talk about hang-overs

Full of life in more ways than one

She carries the weight of worlds – entire galaxies of cells

She doesn’t realize yet that this weight won’t disappear with the pounds she pushes out.

Ever hopeful and full of dreams.

An enigma of childlike wonder and old-soul calm

Her body has been cast into a state of confusion that will preserve her dreams like a forcefield

Breathtaking and belligerent – jaded but under-experienced

She shoulders the worries of all who have walked in her shoes, preparing them for the climb