Grown don’t mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What’s that suppose to mean? In my heart it don’t mean a thing. -Toni Morrison, Beloved
Emily’s Valkyrie
Hey my girl,
My moppet, my colt, my
brilliant amazing daughter
I need you to know
from your toes that recall the
third place I kissed and counted
on the day you were born
to your
knees bruised from
daredevil falls from your bike
to the top of your
sweet smart head that
I love you in a way
that is like having a supernova sun
living inside me
just like
you did once.
You should
give notice to all bullies
and mean girls
that I am your Valkyrie
and will call down an entire pantheon
of pagan gods to
explain things to them.
Or at least, when that
becomes too much and
You have to face them first
yourself then know–
Know with every cell
in your perfect self
That I will be there
with a lapsit and my arms
around you, holding you
always.
Why is a poem so full of love making me cry? But it is.
Because I’ve never loved anyone the way I love my Bean.
