Ever since becoming a mother, I’ve come to love the night almost like a friend, or sister, or doppelganger. I look forward to it all day. As charming as my children are and as supportive as my husband continues to be, maintaining a sense of individuality is an ongoing battle when you’re a mother and spouse. The night is my time to practice being me. Most of my writing happens while the people in my life are sleeping. It’s both lonely and empowering.

This poem came to be a few nights ago, when a gentle thunderstorm kept me up and I began to wonder about that other mother and wife we don’t speak of often enough.

Night Storm

All night the low rumble of thunder—

a sleepless God
rearranging a living

room, dragging her chairs,
cabinets, and dust-caked curios
across wood floors.
Struggling to push a heavy sofa
by herself.

She paces
back and forth quietly
as to not wake Him.

Never satisfied
with the order.


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