Together We Are Waltzing
I am 18,
and I am no longer a glittery
flitting
maiden,
boots stomping,
heart unladen.
I am 19,
and have been stretched
like cling film,
scarred,
marked,
and fertilized.
My breast are no longer
tiny-lace-
bra sized.
I am 19,
and this tiny human
pushed
from my womb—
he’s all I’ve ever wanted
and all I’ve ever known.
I am no longer
untethered.
Only just released
by my own
mother.
But look at him,
so small,
so soft.
He can’t be blamed.
His hand in mine
is the most welcome bind
of anything.
And so we dance
the dance,
and others say
don’t blink.
I blink,
and he is gone,
replaced
with someone bigger,
louder.
What has the time done?
The dance comes natural
to me,
to him.
We flow in and out
and around.
But I am still in need.
Diapers and dishes
and rashes,
Am I enough?
How can there be
so much pee?
We go out
after months,
and all around
are strangers.
Diploma wielding,
career searching,
educated girls,
don’t see me.
I am a mother
on the sidewalk
with a stroller.
I am not one of them.
There, mothers walk.
They waited,
took the pill,
have had careers.
I am the nanny.
I am not real.
This dance—
of milk,
and mixing tears,
and the 2am ceiling—
is one
that we
together are waltzing.
Now,
I am 20.
I am stretched,
but still glittering.
I am marked
and have been reshaped,
but I am still dancing.
About the Author
Clara Benson is a mixed-race Latina who has been writing poetry since she was nine-years-old and participated in an Emily Dickinson poetry workshop at her local library. Before then she wrote stories, a passion which has continued into adulthood, and has since completed three full length novels. She now lives with her husband and baby boy in the New England countryside. Aside from her deep love for writing and reading—which, along with caring for a child, take up most of her time—she enjoys historical costuming, experimental cooking and going grocery shopping. She hopes to someday write from a tiny house in the woods, as off-grid as possible.
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