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| Danae—Gustav Klimt, 1907 |
These Words Are My Children
These words are my children,
floating freely in the lukewarm womb
of my mind, incubated
in the darkest valleys, fed
from my fears & frustrations,
my fury & futility, my fire
& foreboding—floating,
spinning, fighting, kicking
until it feels like I can no longer
hold them in, as if they were about to burst
forth in some great eruption of blood
& brains & meaningless verse.
These words are my children—
each one delivered to the world
after hours, days, years of hard
labor—the more I force,
the more they fight. I push
& push & they dig,
dig their claws into my skull. Would
that it were as simple
as an episiotomy to bring them forth;
I would slice my mouth straight
across & live
at peace with my jagged grin,
if it would promise to ease the pain.
Yet, at the very brink of despair
they ease out—precious
& unsafe.
These words are my children,
floating freely in the lukewarm womb
of my mind, incubated
in the darkest valleys, fed
from my fears & frustrations,
my fury & futility, my fire
& foreboding—floating,
spinning, fighting, kicking
until it feels like I can no longer
hold them in, as if they were about to burst
forth in some great eruption of blood
& brains & meaningless verse.
These words are my children—
each one delivered to the world
after hours, days, years of hard
labor—the more I force,
the more they fight. I push
& push & they dig,
dig their claws into my skull. Would
that it were as simple
as an episiotomy to bring them forth;
I would slice my mouth straight
across & live
at peace with my jagged grin,
if it would promise to ease the pain.
Yet, at the very brink of despair
they ease out—precious
& unsafe.
These words are my children—infants to be molded & metered,
measured & mothered
until they have matured
enough to meet the world.
I am sad
when they leave me.
I am ashamed.
My childrenlost in a world
where their power
slowly dwindles,
where they will be leftunloved, unappreciated, discarded
& forgotten—lost
in a world where apathy
reigns & truth is devoid of meaning.
& I, their once proud mother,
must suffer that pain worse than labor.I must watch my children
die.
measured & mothered
until they have matured
enough to meet the world.
I am sad
when they leave me.
I am ashamed.
My childrenlost in a world
where their power
slowly dwindles,
where they will be leftunloved, unappreciated, discarded
& forgotten—lost
in a world where apathy
reigns & truth is devoid of meaning.
& I, their once proud mother,
must suffer that pain worse than labor.I must watch my children
die.
These words are my children—
but alas, I cannot protect them.
They are doomed:
These words are just my children— from my lips to your ears,
from my hands to your eyes, looking
for homes in your hearts where they might live
forever,
if not for the cold,
iron bars.
but alas, I cannot protect them.
They are doomed:
These words are not fertile
enough to feed you.
These words are not elusive
enough to free you.
These words are not intelligent
enough to teach you.
These words are not gentle
enough to touch you.
These words are not powerful
enough to incite you.
These words are not even eloquent
enough to express how much I love
you.
These words are just my children— from my lips to your ears,
from my hands to your eyes, looking
for homes in your hearts where they might live
forever,
if not for the cold,
iron bars.
I started this article over a year ago, when the wounds of Trayvon Martin’s death were still fresh. I never finished it, in part, because the emotions were still so raw. There hadn’t been enough time to process what had happened to that young man who only wanted to get back home with his Skittles & tea and watch basketball, only rage and disgust. Then there was the feeling that nagged me, a sense that Trayvon Martin’s killer might get off. The rage and disgust are gone–not gone, never gone–subsided; but I still can’t shake that feeling.