A Space Called Mother I

Somewhere between power trip and power failure, I exist—in a cold dark place full of warmth—or heat—I dance like water at my best—like ice at my depths. I still birth.

—9:16 post meridiem, November 25th, 2018

Here, I imagine—You feel more at home in my body than I do.

I find solace in watching myself trying to be a good mother—a perfect mother—I found honor in knowing that she still only exists adorned in glittering imperfections. I see her tries—all of her attempts that lead to half actions and whole actions have thus far transmuted into You—ten toes, ten fingers—arm, leg, leg, arm, head.

—10:19 ante meridiem, Masha’Allah, November 26th, 2018

I have learned to feed you—and still, I am not yet half the mother I am to be—for I have only just begun to nourish your cries for my attention—your restless waves for my acknowledgment—your tossing and turning—your tides attempting to pull from my seashores a distant touch.

—10:53 ante meridiem, Learning to Love Again

 

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