unmothered poem #17

I found my first white pube two weeks back,

I beamed with a joy untamed.

And tugged at it,

like one tugs at their mother’s arm

When hungry, or tired, or sick.

I have documented each non-birth on my thigh.

Every still-born,

every ectopic pregnancy.

Every drop of blood I’ve spilt or licked from my hands,

I’ve documented.

I’ve finger painted these non-births on my husband’s chest,

as a tribute to the silence in my uterus.

In 1941,

     My mother the serpent was born.

woven from poverty and melancholy.

morphed into misanthropy and cunning.

left a scent of all her trophies,

trapped a mate,


birthed an apple.

no one ate.

rotted core.

I’ve tried to mimic her sloughing

to reacquaint myself,

with myself,

with that part of me that screams in yearning.


that no part of me was made

to carry anything other

than myself.

In 1979,

A goat was born.

Tamed, depressed, rectangular.

Didn’t separate in layers.

Called to the sky for her equal.

Cried to the sky for her equal.


No children

Just them.

Her equal.

Encouraging the children in them

To not fade

To stay

To play.

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