Poetry- Clara Burghelea
Process of Detachment
I expect my son will let go of me when he’s five.
I will go back to just being Clara.
So ready to unspool from the erupting teeth,
the needy eyes, the extra hugs, the sticky fingers
and slip back into my old unprompted self.
The one who walked hard and spoke loudly,
flirted, craving to feel armies of ionized butterflies
prickle her backbone and warm her cheeks.
Of course, my body will stay proof of my shortcomings,
the twitching finger of the world pointing
at the curves, ...