These three poems by Rachel Beachy reflect on the intricacies of motherhood through specific moments that capture the tumultuous — and tender — art of raising children…
by: Rachel Beachy
Matrescence
This life did not deliver me
like a bride over the threshold
I was not swept off my feet by a wave
of affection for that which binds
there is a reason they call it
confinement, which implies
the desire for release. I have turned
inside out and felt my skin crawl
as the thing within pressed against
my chest. That which sustains
can also curdle in the dark.
When I forget how to pray,
I picture God as a mother
promising to come back –
no matter where a woman goes
she is the place we are from.
To make it to the other side
I had to tear the veil.
On Sight
The summer my grandmother goes blind
my daughter wears an eye patch. There is still time
for her mind to sharpen, to see with equal strength.
Each morning she puts it on and I think of the car keys,
the griddle, the nail polish my grandmother has given up
(I cannot bear to think of the books).
What is the turning point of fine-tuning and loosening?
Is it the room I walked into and forgot why, or the way
time itself has become a blur since she was born?
According to my grandmother, the world did not go dim,
the telephone poles just started to sway. She still sounds
the same when I call – talk radio and birdsong in the background –
and tells me she can’t wait to see us, which only strikes me
as I say it back. But it does not seem less true for either one.
When we go to the wedding in June, my daughter sits beside her
they reach for each other’s hand
and find it without looking.
Remembrance
My daughter asks what my favorite color is
nearly every day, so I ask her back.
Her answer is always different.
Yesterday: pink. Today: yellow
like the sun, like in the song that I sing
her to sleep. I try to remember everything
about her. How she says “lellow” and always skips
the number fourteen when counting, such as
the tree rings on the stump in the yard
to see how old it was, how old she will be
when she outgrows it. She wants to know why
it fell, wonders if it needs a band-aid
like some of the other trees on our street
with ribbons tied around them. She doesn’t know
the ribbons are to remember the little boy
who died in a wreck last summer. She just notices
they are all the same color. His favorite –
that day – was red.
Rachel Beachy lives in Kentucky with her husband and children. Her debut collection Tiny Universe will be published by Kelsay Books. Her poetry has also appeared in Mulberry Literary, ONE ART, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Rust & Moth, Sky Island Journal, Wild Roof Journal, and others. She was shortlisted for the Central Avenue Poetry Prize 2026.
