Gabriela Sikorski

3 Poems

Quieting

Shhh, she begs the tiny screaming mouth,
two nugget-teeth decorating the bottom gum
as a pink tongue quivers with the agony
of several minutes of mystery
dissatisfaction. Why 
won’t he just be quiet?! she asks
herself, desperately, on the verge
of emitting her own, chest-heaving sobs.

She looks at his round head, stray curls
that will straighten after his first haircut;
his flawless make-up model cheeks,
rouged by his rage and angry energy;
pudgy, barley-sticky fingers smear
unwanted paste on the highchair table…

And she dreams of her feet soaking
in rose-scented bubbles with strangers’ hands 
massaging her legs, women 
conversing in different languages.
She imagines she’s in a high-backed, black, leather chair,
cushiony enough for sleep
but with knobby mechanical fists
that knead out knots in her twitchy back 
that bends and straightens a thousand times a day 
with the weight of a beautiful blessing.

Her lids close as her eyes travel upward.
The momentary darkness doesn’t reveal
his chompy steps as his chubby legs waddle away
from her, looking to catch the “kikky cat”
that shares the couch when Barney is on.

It will be in a November
the first time he mumbles
“Lub you, mommy” as sleep whisks him away
to a dreamland of Thomas trains and PJ Masks,
And she rests his weary fullness down
in his “fave-it” Mario jammies.

The cooling down of summers will bring
polyester jerseys with flames on the shoulders.
Fluorescent green cleats will race him around,
getting in an occasional touch of the ball,
as she cheers for him from the sideline.

He will no longer need her to wait for him
at the bus stop; friends will guide his way,
giggling, shoelaces untied, coatless 
in warmth and cold, theorizing, 
“Would you rather eat nothing 
except for your favorite food forever 
or be able to eat anything you want forever
except your favorite food?”
He will channel enlightened Socrates
and challenge like the Inquisitors.

She will put keys in his almost-manly hands
and he will zoom to locations they’ll spy
only on map apps while she whispers prayers
he’ll zoom safely home to bed.
There will be sunflowers on the island one day
simply because; 
he will love his mama.

She doesn’t realize that 21 years will pass
like momentary static on a baby monitor,
and the crib that cradled him will have been donated,
the birds and flowers stamped on the walls
with DIY shapes from Michael’s will be covered
with somber blues and a slate gray
that looks cooler when friends come over.

This baby who toddled late
because of low muscle tone will move decisively
to a state five hours away to live
with his love, working, cooking, laughing
while she cat’s-in-the-cradle cries
over their lost couch cuddles
and silly songs that faded somewhere over a rainbow.

But fatigue won’t allow her clairvoyance,
selfishness won’t permit her scope.
The tiny screaming mouth persists,
While future-her begs her insides to not wish
this tiresome moment away with a gentle
Shhh.