Some Mornings

Some mornings, writing the date
at the top of the page
I feel as though I am pinning myself
not only to the day
but to my whole life
the way a woman pins a dress pattern
to a length of cloth.
The way the sleeve fits
along the fold, how the hem
runs to this end, the delicate neckline
to the other, that's how I fit
into my life, its material chosen for me
long before I first lay down against it,
long before I allowed the first pin to be fixed.


  1. As women, as mothers. Are we pinned to the life we chose or the life that evolved right before our eyes?

  2. or maybe the life we were chosen to have?

  3. Possibly I was feeling a bit trapped the morning I wrote that poem?

    You're right, it does evolve.


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