Story

I am listening, body
what are you telling me?

She is small and red and bloody
quivering and shuddering
she is story and she splits me open
slips between and out and gasps
she tastes the world, a little secret
and she will be sweet as pine trees
and her voice cleaves me in two

we are one, and two,
and here she hides, inside
whispering my name and possibilities

I’m ready when you are,
little squirming thing
I feel the gentle press of your little self,
against the inner parts of me
that wish for you, despite
how ready I’m surely not
but those little pink lines
tell a tale
of what our life could be
and though you’re small
and insignificant
you’re also bigger
than my whole world.

Stretches and scars

I prefer the lines of my body
blurred — my glasses off, I see
myself as smaller than I am.
I yearn to see a thinner girl than I
but to my daughters I am:
big and soft and safe,
and comforting.

Through lenses, rolls and stretch marks
reappear
and who would find me sexy now?

I used to be a hopeless romantic,
poet — starving but not starved
cigarette burns, ink stains on my fingers
scars on my lips verses on my pages,
lined and scribbled upon.
I exchanged the words
with a sleeping story
that grew in my belly
and replaced all that I was
with All that now I am
for them, my little ones.

But I am still woman,
not just mother.
It’s just hard to have
enough of me for both.

Rest now, little one,
your time (and mine) will come,
the storm of life and learning,
but who is this little stranger?
And whose breasts are these, anyway?

Messy buns and yoga pants

From my womb
they came roaring
like baby lions tearing
through their terrible twos
the younger, precocious,
full of secrets
which she whispers to me –
“Mama, change my diaper please
it’s full…
of Magic School Bus.”
Another, bare little bum,
and I inquire,
“Why aren’t you wearing a diaper?”
she responds, a mischievous smile,
“Because you’re lucky.”

And I am,
motherhood is joyous,
great loves in little bodies
though mine is not as small
as it used to be,
stretched and scarred,
and these sports bras are so good
I feel emotionally supported
on the days when my personal style
could be called, “I didn’t expect
to get out of the car.”

Thai-Lynne Lavallee-McLean writes from home while caring for her three children. Part-time, she is working on her Bachelor of Arts degree with a Major in English. As a teen, she attended YouthWrite summer camp for young writers, where she studied under renowned Canadian writers. Thai-Lynne has recently had a story published that appeared in an anthology at the end of May, and a poem published by Borrowed Solace magazine. 

If you missed Part I, read it here.