To the Mothers

Dear baby, it hurts when you nudge my ribs
and the imprint of your toes press fireworks
between the bars– a stamp to the sacred
scrapbook that is my heart. But it hurts
in the way that running pleasantly
aches; burning lungs and thighs barely
noticeable, eclipsed by the ecstasy
that is coming out on top scarcely;
hurts the way fire burns, with the ability
to scorch you, but also to shine in inspiring
ways, and to rid the earth of dismally
old foliage– useless brown adorning–
to revel in bareness, reveal the globe
slowly regrowing forest; it hurts like hope.

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