[Chelsea McClellan]

Hi, all. This is my first poem to share with this crowd, and it is my most recently written from last week. I am interested to see what thoughts you might have to share! (I have thick skin; please don't hold back because I'm new to here.) It is my take on a spenserian stanza, and it does attempt to make use of mixed true and slant rhyme.



Like Grandmother, Like Granddaughter


Postpartum bodies do what they will do.
No sweet talk rushes them to crochet faster.
I used to want to learn to knit. Still do.
Always too slow, I ran out of time to ask her
and though she’s still alive—if you ask her pastor—
she doesn’t call me back with any help.
I guess she’s still annoyed that I harrassed her
with all those garden questions I withheld
until she died. I’ll have to learn to knit myself.

Diastasis Recti’s what they call
the gap between our abs we feel post-birth.
Lace curtains where there should’ve been a wall.
It’s funny just how often it occurs.
How many daughters don’t take time to learn
their mother’s recipes until their own
daughters ask how grandma knew to turn
the crochet hooks just right. Had she been shown?
Or did she have to muscle-up her grit alone?





S1L5: removed "!" after "pastor"