Mary Wlodarski

21st century love poem

I try to find a
fitting compliment. I lose
my phone when you’re home.


Is like becoming a moon
orbiting a planet;
the only place to turn
is to the baby.
As you hold his body,
your face gravitates to his,
your shoulders pulled
to the small weight in your arms,
body wanting to envelop him.

It will wear on your self esteem
your inexperience,
your mistakes.
His newness will eclipse you
although you never intended that.
In the company of others
words evaporate,
responses hang mid air,
topics for conversations vaporize
in the fog of memory,
even the written words,
are two shades left of true.

Mary Wlodarski has published poems in Texas Poetry Review, Spry, Slippery Elm Literary Journal, and Water~Stone. She teaches English and Creative Writing and completed her MFA at Hamline University. She lives in Minnesota with her three horses, husband, and two young boys.