Motherhood is a storm.

It blows in on the winds

of a pregnancy test,

two pink lines

to shift the barometer.

The earth’s pressure

moves the ground beneath

your feet, swollen and

ever-growing

like your belly

and your breasts, which

will soon be empty.

The leaves are shaken from the trees

covering the carpet and 

the kitchen floor, crispy 

and prickly on their edges.

The roof is raining,

there is blood in the bathtub

and the world is covered with

debris.

It leaves behind destruction,

houses and hearts toppled over,

women weeping in the streets.

Mountains quake, rocks fall,

and still

there is so much

to do.