(On the hidden parts of parenting) Anyway

Our days fill with this or that and

you grow up anyway,

we argue

anyway,

And I fill up with

a grief like shame anyway,

even when you have the best of me.

I remember the force

of you ripping through me.

But now it’s a softer pain,

precise,

separating me from how good I

thought I could be,

like meat from the bone.

Maybe it’s not a pain at all,

just another form of joy,

to see myself in your eyes.

And you fill up with

choosing me anyway.

You keep asking for me

anyway.