I can’t say much about childbirth, at 41 I am not a mother, this is of course by choice and by a lot of years of experience in saying no, no, no, no—
discomfort doesn’t rummage well in my pages— I rip them if I have to, discomfort is for pushing out strength, for strange ways to contort the body, for hard conversations— discomfort falls from sad days into the lap of the contagious ways I avoid what must be done
vines grow silently and slowly, how else do we get sweet wine if not with patience? how else do we give birth without giving birth?
All I do is ask questions. All I do do do is suck my thumb when things get tough and then I cry hoping to get back into the womb to feel the pain of being birthed, because we forget the baby’s pain when we only focus on the mother
imagine being snatched from the safest place you’ll ever be? imagine leaving a warmth that can never be replicated even on the hottest day?
we’re all born ready to be under a great pressure, we just get caught up being hungry for things that don’t nourish