Fragmented Motherhood

an ode to the perpetual interruptions

Writing. Cleaning. Eating. Thinking. Sleeping.
Even bathing—sometimes.

Everything interrupted. Fragmented.
Every word, every thought, every desperate attempt
to run toward REM sleep—interrupted.

Every single verb of mine,
broken by little living commas,
exclamations, semicolons,
and tiny periods
with names I vaguely remember choosing.
Whispered once in a quiet after birth,
now shouted across the cacophony of our days.

A mother. Or maybe a clown.
A perpetual juggling act
in the circus we call home,
where the tightrope frays
and I, the safety net.

I dance in the dissonance.
Tears and laughter resound alike,
the only solace I find:
in all the fragments of my ability,
they might look beyond me—
and there,
find God.