Unbirth

I have given birth five times or rather

Given birth to life three times

Passed objects of conception once

And given birth-death on a cold

February night when the car was an

hour from the hospital once

 

I held her, Birth-Death, in the sacred space

between my legs,

 

She rested there as I held her rubber like body

It felt like she fought it, once more, briefly

Her life force trying to spring back into my womb,

The safe place she practiced living until

the coiled cord, the coiled death device

Yanked her still warm yet oddly freezing

little self towards my cavern womb cradle

 

Why do I still need to write this twenty years later?

 

Do I somehow feel it justifies my failings now?

 

Do I somehow think I can hide behind what

I haven't been able to do now with what I wasn't

able to do then?

 

Must I relive those moments that I fell, tumbling,

somersaulting, arms flailing, mouth silently screaming

into that morbid Mother-without-a-child place

that still born place I share with her and him and them

and you and her,  too -  of beautiful voluptuary poetry, too?

 

She has toured that vile, revisited far too often place

and no, I will not turn to my phone and

no, I will not answer your text and

no, I will not go anywhere I don't want to go

or do anything I don't want to do while

my heart sits, aching, in my chest-platter

longing for a soul-holder to cradle me

and let my tears fall where they may

without it becoming a battle for

"my shit is bigger and badder and

more painful than your shit" because

you know what? I hate that shit or

worse and brimming over with truth yet,

I am bored to tears of that shit -

I feel the need to give birth to

whatever this gelatinous blob

feeling that pulses in the center

of my gut is - and burst

it out of me so I can

get on with my life.

(this was prompted by the dear ones at Sunday Scribblings who I am cursing and thanking simultaneously. Visit them here and be inspired by their prompts.)

Julie Jordan Scott delivers conscious inspiration in the Daily Passion Activator, - insights delivered directly into your email box. Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

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Comments

[Gemma@Greyscale]

Savage and yet I feel that being able to pen such emotion must be a release, a necessary release! Quite confronting for a reader! But also there is a feeling that life should be valued and revalued!

[Old Grizz]

I cannot begin to tell you how much I appreciate you sharing this. I cry for your loss and thank you for letting me feel your sorrow and sadness.

[Linda May]

that was heart wrenching. I lost 2 also, but very early on. You are not a failure for having this happen to you.

[Understanding Alice]

heartbreaking, harsh and real - you are brave to write it all - thank you x

[Susan]

I honor you...and your babe.

[Dina Spice]

My chest hurts for you Julie, and I am crying as I write this. You are extremely brave to be able to keep writing about that (void of words) experience after all this time. It happened to you, and is part of what makes you who you are. Such a huge, meaningful part of your life, horrible to keep revisiting I'm sure, but I can't image being a poet, a mother, and being able to file it away too deep in your brain.

I had a miscarriage, but at the beginning of my second trimester, and I still cannot bring myself to think about that for more than a moment at a time. Again, I think you are so brave, and I am so thankful you shared such a huge part of what makes you, you, with us.

- Dina

[Carina]

Desperate truth here. Well-written and powerful.

[Mother Henna]

Julie, this is so beautiful and honest and speaks straight to my own bereaved mother heart. If you ever want to share this as a guest post on the KOTA blog, I would be honored to host it there. So many miracles to you!
k-

[angie]

thanks for this, Julie.

mine hit me 18 years later, for no reason. we were caught up in the whirlwind of graduation and all the excitement and pride in our youngest. then, the morning after the party, I step in the bathroom and look in the mirror and unbidden the thought -- it's your graduation, too -- flew into my mind. I started heaving dry, deep sobs. I couldn't stop. I stood in the shower for what seemed like hours just moaning. and the strange thing is I've never dwelt that much on the lost twin; it wasn't a baby. it was a hole in the ultrasound. but that pain came from somewhere deep inside me, so deep I didn't know it was there.

your poem is so honest and raw -- it says all the things I can't.

[KB]

Thank you for sharing such a personal experience with us.