April 23, 2014

Robin Silbergleid


Our daughter looks like me
      people say, the architecture
of her eyebrows and pointed stare.
      But in the photograph of you
at thirteen months: our baby’s
      toothless grin after she’s grabbed
the cat by the tail. Every child
      you said needs a mother who reads
and each night I let her suck
      thick cardboard illustrations,
Big Red Barn and Goodnight Moon,
      while I balance her on my lap.
If you lived with us, you
      would know this. Perhaps
you would bring me a cup of tea
      while I nurse her on the couch,
a book of poems open nearby.
      Sometimes I wonder if you wonder
about us, when you’re at work
      in the laboratory or when
you’re feeding your new son a bottle.
      The stories of our children
are woven together. The tapestry
      couldn’t be more beautiful, filled
with these widening holes.

from Rattle #41, Fall 2013
Tribute to Single Parent Poets

[download audio]


Robin Silbergleid: “I live in East Lansing, Michigan, where I write, teach, and raise my two children. This poem comes from my manuscript The Baby Book, which deals with infertility treatment and becoming a single mother by choice.”

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