Heather Romero-Kornblum

Mercury

Mercury was a fiery glowing watermelon slice

beautiful through the telescope

I uttered the word “miracle”

teary-eyed to the senior volunteers,

my son in tow

I still apologize for being sick

for giving my son an edited version of mothering

for the family he had that fell apart after I landed in the ICU

for other insanities that I cannot control

Though I explain that I cannot control all of these things

Oh, it’s beautiful

I say about Mercury

something I cannot control  

Beautiful

I say about my son

whose life and spirit I cannot control

Beautiful, I want to say about 

everything that has passed and could not control

but I am still lightyears away

Ann Taylor Is Your Friend

My skin caught on a hanger at Ann Taylor

leaving pools of blood on the dressing room floor 

My husband, disheveled, but back in our bed and off of the streets,

was confused that I still wanted to try on the clothes,

commenting that a yellow sweater dress looked like a bathrobe

He didn’t understand that in his disappearances,

and when I shrunk and bled,

Ann Taylor became my friend,

helping me place my body

into hues and shapes that fit the shell I turned into

In brief moments, I imagine that I am still a wife and mother who goes on vacation

in watermelon hues

eating slices by the pool

I remember brunches past

Mother’s Day surprises with Hawaiian short ribs and donuts 

romantic getaways and weekends

introducing my fast-food husband to wine-tastings and exotic culinary experiences

cocktails and dancing

hands held across the table

I laughed

took up space

offered myself up

basking in the juiciness of all watermelon layers

Before Ann Taylor,

my husband and son were the shirttails and skirts

that billowed behind me in multiple hues of our life lived

Now, the Weekend collection, 

Getaway Shop,

Showstoppers

are the realities that billow behind me

as the ruse becomes harder to keep up 

This Mother’s Day,

I walked around the mall with shopping bag and son – 

Ann Taylor for me, Chipotle, Beard Papa, and Legos for him

We sat on the steps as he ate his Chipotle

the peachy-watermelon contents of my bag brighter 

than any future I imagined in that moment

I’m sorry I’m the mom you have, I said to him

I know we used to go out and you would make a card with A for me,

I recalled aloud, my husband back to being a ghost

I didn’t know how to normalize any of it for him

if it even should be normalized 

I’m at least here and alive, I thought,

grateful for my imaginary friend

My son sighed 

and I wanted to adorn him in his own billowy watermelon-hued shirttails

to carry him far away from this reality

Watermelon Slice

My C-section scar was a watermelon slice

You’ll feel some pressure, the doctors said,

cutting my son out of me

Their hands deep inside my anesthetized belly,

I felt the slightest of tingles as they stretched the incision open

the curtain halving me fooled me into thinking this was happening to someone else 

My son’s bio dad cut the umbilical cord and I saw him for the first time 

slick, and like a tiger,

he cried laaaaa

With the watermelon slice,

I couldn’t lift him, 

keeping him on my lap on the nursing pillow

He just wants you to hold him,

my son’s bio dad said,

gesturing lifting and positioning over the shoulder

I was leaking everywhere

scared of having more than my son separated from me