Motherhood

This is about how

life goes from

being

less about me,

and more about

Zoodles lunches and

constantly smelling like

sour milk.

Copyright, Catherine Young. December 16th, 2011

Four (or 'Her third birthday")

There's something I love

more than three.

I feel no guilt.

Don't misunderstand me -

three has been good to us

for quite some time

now.

But, as I regard

my mirror's reflection, and

my slowly swelling figure, I

also realize that

four is

much, much,

more.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2o11.

Soldiers

The final cry of

those who die

with less than honour in

their eyes

will not be heard by anyone

whether battles be lost

or battles

be won.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2011

nemesis

"to hell with this,"

she shrugged, shattering

the veil of feigned shame

that was categorically surrounding

her

it was undeniable

- she hated doing the

fucking laundry.

Copyright Catherine Young, 2011.

If you were gone, my heart would break.

The soul within me would fragment, flake

and this life, I could not remake

nor find another to mend the aches.

Whenever the foundation beneath you quakes,

your limbs and life, quiver; shake

and the future appears opaque

The strength you have, do not forsake.

I beg you now, turn, face the light

whether you interpret it dim or bright

muster all your will and might

and together, we'll take up the fight.

Copyright, Catherine Young 2011.

It's time to paint again

I smiled.

"It's time to start

painting again,"

you said.

Usually the leap

towards labour doesn't

tug at me

like this, but

preparing another

room for one more

beating heart,

for one more

smiling face,

for one more

interminable love,

well,

this is not labour.

I feel the potential

growing within me

to face this

with power and

conviction, as I

run my hand across

the rainbow of

samples.

Copyright Catherine Young, 2011.

Eat

When those sunny days turned

into fall, and you remained

firmly by my side,

I knew that I could devour

life again - digest the seconds and

minutes and hours yet

unlived, and allow the

sour sweetness of

disbelief to saturate my

plain existence. The leaves fell around

us, and we never faltered, refusing

to hit the ground with them -

those maples and oaks

and birches, all

encrusting the stake we made. This,

I mistakenly thought, was

all for nought.

I feel fate laughing at me still, and my

foolishness, long since departed. So,

let use eat up this life, drink in

ourselves, our souls, and

relish in the swollen

contentment of our

bellies until we are

overfilled.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2011.