We Take Our Children Tobogganing
after wrestling with boots and mitts
after packing hot chocolate, teddy grahams, extra socks,
after waiting out the held-breath tantrum over zippers.
We stand at the top, an impasse, clouds of breath
forming a storm over their little woolen-wrapped heads.
Their voices needle us, sharp and small — I don’t wanna — enough to draw blood. I hear the whir of a distant bird, air plunging through its struggling wings.
Some days this is what it is to be a mother; wingless, a cliff, and the choice to push or jump.