Mom, A Writer, On Halloween

by Rachel Creager Ireland

Sometimes every word I write
must be written in blood, paid for in blood,
cut into my chest with a scalpel.
Sometimes every unwritten word
a trapped raptor beating wild wings
against the bars of the rib cage.

There was more to this idea, but
I left my keys at my daughter’s school,
another episode of ineptitude.
Inside, oatmeal uneaten on the stove,
a story about redemption on the back burner,
I’d rushed anxiously flailing, hopelessly failing
to get my children to their places,
on time, and in appropriate costume.

The cats met me hungry at the door.