About Being a Mother

A poem by Dorian Kotsiopoulos

How the night your first was born, you’d thought there must be a mistake—

such beauty could not come from your body,

and how your body tuned to him, the way your bones now signal

a change in weather, you’d sense the vibration of his awakening,

and sometimes, when the throb of milk stretched your breasts or when you looked at her curls, fat as fists, you’d suddenly, unexpectedly, love your body, and how your mouth

will still mouth the words to songs you sang to them, songs you didn’t know

you knew, like Lydia, The Tattooed Lady, and you’ll remember how to play action figures—

the rule that you must have a favorite superhero and must be prepared to justify

your choice, and, “I like their costume,” is still a good answer,

yes, and you’ll smile about the times they reminded you of that February night you took them

to the late show to see The Family Man with Nicholas Cage, how they were so hungry

after, only the golden arches yawning, so you ordered supersized fries all around

at the drive-thru, plus milkshakes too, just for the heck of it, and used their mittens

to clear the windows clouded humid from hot grease, sweet breath, how they talked about fries at 11 at night more than the Disney World trips, and how, to this day, even though your children

are adults now, living in other states, your body prickles to attention when you hear,

say, in a store, or anywhere, a tentative voice call, “Mom?”

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Dorian Kotsiopoulos’s work has appeared in literary and medical journals, including Poet Lore, Salamander, New England Journal of Medicine, JAMA, On the Seawall, and Third Wednesday as well as in the All Poems Are Ghosts (Tiny Wren Lit) anthology. She is a member of the Jamaica Pond Poets workshop group.

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