Postpartum Nightmares

Poetry Collection No. 10, includes A Snare, Everywhere and I’m the Hair-Splitter

Hey friend, 

I’ve been playing with villanelle, a form poem, thanks to

Nelly Bryce

from

Poetry Pals

, and Write Better Poems. The limits imposed by the form felt like they helped my creativity rather than stifling it. It’s like a puzzle.

This collection is about nightmares and helplessness, putting to death people-pleasing, and the extravagant, active love of the Lord. Thank you so much for reading!

Photo by Pedro Figueras

Postpartum Nightmares

In my dreams, I always lose—

for the briefest second, I lose you.

I can’t talk, I can’t move. 

The atmosphere starts to ooze 

like thick toffee. I can’t reach you—

and in my dreams, I always lose.

I lose you amongst the shoes

I lose you in the queues

I can’t talk, I can’t move. 

I wake, feel your loss like a bruise. 

In the dark, my hands find you.

But in my dreams, I always lose. 

In the day, I’m not the Mum on the news,

In the day, my hands reach you—

but at night, I can’t move. 

By night, the faceless accuse, 

“What kind of mother are you?”

In my dreams I always lose:

I can’t find you, I can’t move. 

A Snare, Everywhere

If I wasn’t afraid, I would—  

But fear of man is a snare.

If I was brave, I guess I could.

I just want to be right, to be good,

but I don’t want to risk that stare.

If I wasn’t afraid, I guess I would.

It brings me to my knees, motherhood. 

I’m the one to fight for their 

needs. If I was brave, I guess, I could. 

I risk being misunderstood 

for them: I summon courage, I dare. 

I am not afraid, I would. 

No longer in childhood, 

no longer do I easily scare

I am brave, I could.

I stand strong in motherhood 

I am weak but with lots of prayer, 

I will not fear, I would

be brave. For them, I could. 

I’m the Hair-Splitter

I don’t want to forgive, 

don’t like the look of bitter, 

but I tend towards the passive. 

I don’t want be combative, 

so I avoid and permit her

hurts, but don’t forgive— 

it’s too hard. So I relive, 

ruminative, I’m the hair-splitter,

and I tend, tend towards the passive.

Resentment is no way to live.

I’m getting crispy, starting to fritter, 

but still, don’t want to forgive. 

Curdled rage reveals me defective 

compared to his mercy, all aglitter, 

but still, I tend my heart towards passive.

  

He says, what did you give?

What did you bring, you bullshitter, 

to your salvation, if I did not forgive,

if I tended towards passive?

You can read previous collections here: 

Don’t Sea My Fear | Cast the Coats Away | A Prayer for Words | More 

For more villanelles:

Check out Oral Surgery by

Margaret Ann Silver

, The Household Need by

Kym VdP

and One Art by Elizabeth Bishop.

Poetry Pals

has a great how-to guide for villanelle.