but underneath this unbridled
outrage I secretly wonder
whether motherhood has left me
grumpy all the time—
or just when I’m alive.
Or maybe it’s the postpartum hair
that prompted his comment,
wild and untamed and growing
in places I didn’t think possible,
threatening to sprout from every pore
and inch of skin until I am shaggy
from head to hoof. Honestly,
it could be the way I swat
at him every time he comes close
no matter how slow or gentle
the approach, my arm as graceful
as a shit-encrusted tail. Plus
the humps that have sagged 
over time—the spheres that once hung
like the sun, suspended 
and just out of reach, drawing his fingers 
into my orbit but now drop and droop 
like heavy eyelids. Or it could be my belly,
the way it hangs down low, swaying
back and forth as I shuffle forward.
Or the way I chomp at the bit,
each meal eaten in haste,
spittle accumulating at the corners
of my mouth, no time to dab
or dine finely before I am subject
to the demands of two feral
toddlers—No, he grumbles, cutting me off.
I meant that you are resilient,
able to carry the weight
of domestic life across deserts,
able to withstand windstorms
kicked up by the terrible-twos and puberty.
I meant that you bear the brunt
of breakfast, lunch, and dinner
without complaint, letting our children live
off your body over and over until
there’s nothing left to give, no milk
or muscle or stored-up fat
making a home in your lower half.
I meant that even on nights
when money is tight and the green grows
brown and the fear of what’s out there
eclipses the hope of what’s to come,
you are unshakable, sure-footed
across the billowing highs and lows
of our lives. That even when
you are too damn tired
to climb the stairs after dark,
you somehow still manage to exercise
patience and compassion.
I meant that you guide us through
the dry spells of marriage until
my faith is replenished and
our health is restored and we
quench our thirst at long last.
I meant that when I think of you
I think of a canopied place to rest
and the way you shelter our sons
from the blistering truth of this world.
I meant that you have more strength
and stubbornness in this one moment
than most people have in a lifetime.
I meant that maybe I’ve hallucinated you
all these years. I meant that you are
my oasis, my sanctuary, my way
of staying alive.

Mia Herman is a Jewish writer and editor living in New York. She is the author of the poetry chapbook UNTIL THE END OF TIME (Alien Buddha Press, 2023). Mia holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Hofstra University and her work has appeared in dozens of publications. Connect with her on X @MiaMHerman or drop her a line at mia.herman.writes@gmail.com.

When my husband compares me to a camel, I roll my eyes and give a grunt