"What Mothers Do" by Natalie Marino

What Mothers Do

That day before dawn,
my brain fentanyl frozen,
the clock unmovable.

Unraveled and unable
to paint the sky,
I grabbed for air,

afraid of a neophyte’s wings.
I thought about
when my goldfish died.

I was a child, and I transferred
them between bowls
too many times.

Now I was a boat
arriving ashore,
but I hadn’t learned

how to sew mittens.
The first days were slow,
like a kerosene lamp’s light,

but one day I woke up
and found myself naked.
In light and dark rivers,

my ribcage aches.
I swim towards the day
when I will give the sun

its gold bouquet,
when my crying hands
let go of grown birds.

Natalie Marino

Natalie Marino is a writer, mother, and physician. She earned her B.A. in American Literature from UCLA and her M.D. from the University of Pittsburgh. She has work in or forthcoming in Barren Magazine, Idle Ink, Leon Literary Magazine, Literary Mama, Louisiana Literature, Mineral Lit Mag, and others. She lives in Thousand Oaks, California, with her husband and two daughters.

Headshot: Rose Rothwell

Photo Credit: Staff