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
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.
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!
Posted by: Gemma@Greyscale | June 19, 2010 at 08:27 PM
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.
Posted by: Old Grizz | June 19, 2010 at 11:18 PM
that was heart wrenching. I lost 2 also, but very early on. You are not a failure for having this happen to you.
Posted by: Linda May | June 20, 2010 at 12:12 AM
heartbreaking, harsh and real - you are brave to write it all - thank you x
Posted by: Understanding Alice | June 20, 2010 at 11:41 AM
I honor you...and your babe.
Posted by: Susan | June 20, 2010 at 12:47 PM
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
Posted by: Dina Spice | June 20, 2010 at 05:27 PM
Desperate truth here. Well-written and powerful.
Posted by: Carina | June 21, 2010 at 05:31 PM
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-
Posted by: Mother Henna | June 21, 2010 at 11:42 PM
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.
Posted by: angie | June 23, 2010 at 04:20 PM
Thank you for sharing such a personal experience with us.
Posted by: KB | June 29, 2010 at 07:37 PM