Ultrasound

A Poem

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Yesterday was my older daughter’s birthday and suddenly we have a 17 year-old. Way back when, in the excitement of expecting our first child, I wrote this sonnet for her. She was a beautiful, perfect, miracle of a baby in every way (even with chronic ear infections), and I often reread this poem because it is largely about our first real moment of connection through personality.

Ultrasound
     by Chuck Rybak

When my daughter yawned on the ultrasound
I knew this image was my flesh and blood,
my ally against incessant good moods
and megaphone martyrs who pound
their ills--no sleep, no time, no rest--and sound
so proud in the process. Let us be bored,
my dear, and let our open mouths exude
that we're not interested today. Slow down.

I admire the downy plush of yawns,
the soft curve they provide for reclining--
a serviceberry blossom or the pink cup
of a drowsy foxglove. Your yawn, a song
I'm learning to sing, should be hummed while lazing
in a hammock, while the go-getters...well...get.

***

I hope you are all doing well out there.