Michelle Bitting

Be Attitude

Blessed is the poor mother
besieged by a kingdom of chores—
the freezer that must be scraped
along with her gums,
the rugs deloused and spanked.

Blessed is she who mourns
her son’s meek synapses,
his mildly persecuted mind,
a daughter’s unrighteous appetite
keeping meat from her bones.

Blessed is the earth
as it opens up around her,
widens its dark-songed throat.

Blessed is the rose-colored pill:
engraved bead of peace
she mercifully tacks
to the back of her tongue.

Blessed the heart
she finds to rise
from her celadon loveseat ashes—
bills, laundry,
the dog-eared books and guitar,
white flame pages
singed with half-baked ideas—

rises with the scent

of toasted cookies,
to the god of her children
skipping towards her,
the Sanctus of their footsteps
serenading the porch.

Blessed are her arms
throwing wide the doors,
a heaven
of curled hair and breath
folded back into herself, recalling

the hymns her body sang
and inherits now,
rejoicing, exceedingly glad.


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