by Laurie Rosen
When I gave birth to my son without the aid
of narcotics or an epidural, pain searing, I called
for my Mama. A grown woman, already a Mama
and I called for mine.
It wasn’t something I planned, the cry shot out
my grimaced mouth, my husband sitting by my side,
a nurse coaching me on. I shouted for my Mama
because somewhere in my subconscious I believed
no one else but my Mama could relieve me of my pain.
Not even the man who loves me could do that.
When I heard George Floyd called for his Mama,
(not his girlfriend or brother) I thought, Of course he did.
Who else but a Mama might rescue a son from the grip
of a cop determined to strangle the life out of him?
And when I learned Duante Wright called his Mama,
just before a cop shot him dead, I imagined him reaching
for his Mama. Who else but a Mama would lay their body
across a son to shield him from the bullet
they both knew was coming.
Laurie Rosen is a lifelong New Englander. Her poems have appeared in The London Reader, Muddy River Poetry Review, Beach Reads (an anthology from Third Street Writers), Peregrine, Oddball Magazine, and other journals.
