"Bedtime at 6 Months" a poem by Miranda

An original poem by Miranda

Intro

I turned this poem in for one of my first poetry workshops in grad school, and it was not well received at all. That was long before I started my transition; I was presenting as a mustachioed bowtie-wearing bisexual barista guy back then. One piece of feedback about the poem stuck with me, “Sometimes women can get away with this sort of” (long pause) “domestic poem, but I don’t see what you’re trying to say here.”

First of all, men can, and should!, write about parenthood and domestic life, too. Secondly, tricked ya! I was a mom the whole time (well, mum in our household because my wife still goes by mom).

That grad school commenter was wrong about this one. I’ve made a couple pronoun updates in the poem (for both myself and my older child who was the 6 month old who wouldn’t sleep). Otherwise, it’s pretty close to what I turned in for that workshop and is one of my favorite poems in my portfolio. And being a mum is one of my favorite parts of life.

The poem text is below, followed by a video of me reading it.

💜Miranda📚

p.s. Our children still aren’t good at going to bed at a reasonable time. Neither am I. lol

Bedtime at 6 Months

The repeating creaking of the wood planks
underneath the rocking chair sings steady
lullabies. I’m dozing myself, waiting
for their eyelids—comfy blankets over

dreamed life—to roll down and cover hazel
irises. My aching leg lets the song
slow, and then stop. Reopened eyes beam up
at me. I cross my legs the other way,

rewind the music box, and rock again.
Into tiny ears I whisper poems
that will never be heard by another.
This one must have held the right dream—tuning

in, drool starting to form at the corner
of a mouth that will someday call me Mum.
I am ready for my own peace and rise
from the chair—sleeping baby draped across

my arms, now weighing twice as much somehow.
I step toward the crib plodding and careful,
then I lift them over the rail and down.
I watch squishy arms wrap around their bear.

I wait, watching the rise and fall of breath.
I tiptoe toward the exit, avoiding loud
floorboards. As I pull the door closed, a hinge
speaks. And when my baby cries, I do, too.

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