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SHE CHRONICLES: “For Mamas Who Have Considered Suicide While Loving Daughters With Open Wounds” a poem by Crystal Tennille Irby

If I could rename her, I would call her Oya.  She brought the rain/the storm/the thunder and lightening my heart needed.

I thought my womb would stretch/hips expand/body open for all my children to breath life.

I never imagined my teacher would come to me, age 11/a reflection of my brokenness/an unrelenting stare/unyielding hunger to be whole.

There was no escaping.  A time to heal had come, and so began the cycle of faith and fear.

I never imagined my daughter as a savior.  There would be nothing immaculate about her conception.  How I became a mother would be by birth.  But here she is, no marks to prove my body made room for her/to prove to my soul was given time to prepare for her. But she is here, breathing in all of my dreams as if I whispered them to her as she tossed and turned in my body.

She is a sphinx.  The fire burns but never destroys.  I have witnessed her sift through her own ashes at least three times.  For that, I do not take credit.  I am only here to remind her she has been resurrected before.

I relish in every raindrop/vigilant through every storm/faithful when the lightening strikes because I know rebirth is on the other side.  She has taught me to bury the dead/to forgive myself.  It is her grace I am most grateful for/her willingness to allow me to grow/to always allow me to hold her.  Even in the darkest hours, when our arms can’t seem to stretch around our bodies, I hold her in my heart/in my prayers.  I carry her like child in womb in my soul.

Continue reading SHE CHRONICLES: “For Mamas Who Have Considered Suicide While Loving Daughters With Open Wounds” a poem by Crystal Tennille Irby

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