I wrote this poem on mother’s day morning. It’s about my one experience as a mother, but maybe you’ll resonate.

There are many, many, many kinds of mothering, including (I believe) one’s creative practice.

If you’re in a space where the topic of mothers is triggering, I encourage you to show yourself care and sit this one out. If not, I hope you enjoy.

Love, India

PS – my sister had a great idea that there should be a Grandmother’s day. So we don’t have to share. All in favor say aye.

Mother’s Day 
By India Clark

On Mother’s Day, 
I wanted gardening shoes.
A massage, a date with a friend,
Waking up to breakfast in bed with
A perfect cherub who looks 
In my eyes and says 
Mama, I love you. 

Scratch that, all I care about is 
A cup of tea, a sliver of mental space,
And to worship my own mother, 
Who is still in stunning, temporary bloom.

To be a mother
Means to stay 
Beyond the scope of sense and reason,
And discover I am bigger.

That I can live
A ransacked life
And still flourish. 

Staying when my cherub
Is full of the devil,
No interest in kisses,
No interest in quiet. 

Staying even though almost everything 
That’s rightfully mine
Is now imminent domain—

My body, my sleep,
How I present myself aesthetically, 
Even my behavior, sometimes. 
But I stay. 

I stay when my work and friendships,
Art and marriage,
Get ritualistically interrupted,

Like I stayed when my body
Split open 
And this nonsense began,

Which is now the only nonsense that I live by. 
Compromise everything, except 
Tending that stunning and temporary
Young flower.

(Even though I myself
am just a flower.)

The most absurd part of all
Is not the pure science fiction 
Of gestation and birth.
It’s that I love this.

I love knowing my strength, 
Uncovering my reserves, 
Encountering my creativity,
And learning to honor myself 
When it appears to run dry. 

I love the breadth I discover
through the forge 
Of The Mother.

And even more,
I love watching, 
And listening,
And celebrating, 
And witnessing 
You. 

The other day,
Watching your favorite show,
Me laying next to you, flattened 
on the couch like a mother,
You hit pause. 

You walked over, lips pursed,
And kissed my face
—a gentle claim—
Then kissed the top of my head.

It was almost parental. 
And I felt 
How I was in your hands, too.