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      January 1, 2025Sarah E. AziziSingle Mom Finally in Repose

      A father & son are having 
      a water balloon fight. 
      They invite me to join, 
      but I’ve got the skittish dog 
      w/ me, the one who took 
      a good six years to trust us. 
      I shake my head, & we weave 
      our way up the path. 
      New parents push 
      their baby in a swing 
      & my inner mother hears 
      the cries as more scared 
      than excited, but I quiet 
      the impulse to intercede. 
      They slow down into a game 
      of peek-a-boo, & little one coos
      as we come around the bend.
       
      I’d be over the moon to push 
      my chunky baby in a swing
      again, but I feel lucky 
      enough where we’re at. I take 
      care of us, no man’s around 
      to hover or critique, 
      & the seasons turn so fast. 
      Summer’s cresting, but before 
      the light goes dim at dusk 
      hot air balloons will bloom 
      through the New Mexico sky. 
      I open the gate to our yard 
      & crouch to unleash 
      our supreme listener. Maybe,
      I tell her cocked head, 
      graying beard, & wild 
      brows, this year I’ll ride one. 
      My kid peeks thru the blinds, 
      flings open the door, & rushes 
      to spill the teenage tea I missed 
      in the hour just past. I slide off 
      my sneakers & take it all in: 
      this brilliant stream of sound; 
      our tidy, private space;
      these prime years of motherhood;
      the joy of being in one place.

      from #86 – Winter 2024

      Sarah E. Azizi

      “I’ve written poetry since I read Amiri Baraka and June Jordan at 15 and realized poetry can do and be so many things. I’ve long had a penchant for writing from a place of optimism; Rebecca Solnit’s Hope in the Dark speaks to me therein—optimism is dangerous, hope is slippery, but that perilous slope demands my attention, regardless of what else I aim to write about. This poem teased me for nearly a year. The first half I truly experienced, and I knew there was something hidden in the experience; that walk was akin to every other walk I take, but slightly different. Somehow special. Finally, the second half of the poem arrived and said, Sar, you’re celebrating the joy of being in a state of after, full of possibility.”

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