First Time Mom
I am not able to press my lips
to his temple, not yet.
His father is a shithead far away
not a partner nor a husband,
not of much consequence.
His mouth can not breathe
into the walkie-talkie of my bellybutton
blow kisses to his son’s temple
whisper to him in Spanish
read him The Little Prince,
sing Mazzy Star, play guitar
like he promised.
My son will have to wait
to be outside,
break out of me before
he can feel his father’s love.
Children aren’t always conceived in love
even if they are loved.
I can’t press my lips
to his temple, not yet.
At least the dog can rest her head
on the temple beneath my skin.
Two heartbeats she hears
and doesn’t question why.
By Bernadette McComish
Biography
Born in a blizzard in NY with the gifts of premonition and manifestation, Bernadette McComish is an educator and fortuneteller. She earned an M.F.A. from Sarah Lawrence and an M.A. in TESOL from Hunter College. Her poems have appeared in The Cortland Review, For Women Who Roar, Slipstream, Flypaper Magazine, Peregrine, and a finalist for the New Millennium Writers 41st poetry prize. Her chapbook— The Book of Johns was published in 2018 by Dancing Girls Press, and her second chapbook is forthcoming from Lily Poetry Review in September 2021. She teaches High School in LA, and performs poetry, and produces shows with The Poetry Society of New York making poetry accessible to everyone.
Loved it!