by Carina del Valle Schorske
I’m bedding down
in this moment with my sadness,
I’m lining the bassinette with pale ferns.
I don’t want my child sorrow
to wander, wild thing with light for eyes
and a limp, back in the woods again
where the sweetest mushrooms wear red caps.
There’s a cool spoon at the bottom of my voice
where the tears get milked from.
I spend all morning crouched over
to sweep the threshold with my hair.
Is this how a mother feels? Nothing belongs.
Not even the green belongs to the ferns
when my weeping lets it leak from blur to black.
Be little, be little.
Write a poem with a pine needle.
The spoon inside is not so sweet yet
still you suck it dry.
Carina del Valle Schorske is a poet, essayist, and Spanish language translator at large in New York City. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times Magazine, Lit Hub, the Los Angeles Review of Books, The Point, The Offing, The Awl, and elsewhere, always elsewhere. She won Gulf Coast's 2016 Prize for her translations of the Puerto Rican poet Marigloria Palma. She is the happy recipient of fellowships from CantoMundo, the MacDowell Colony, and Columbia University, where she is a doctoral candidate studying Caribbean literature and culture. Find her @fluentmundo on Twitter and at carinadelvalleschorske.tumblr.com.