Tag: motherhood

• Banshee

  Sacred Heart

  With some sensitivity

  you may see it.

  Expressions, quirks, gestures

  and movements

  in people of all sorts.

  Snapshots.

  The same child their mother saw.

  Some babe in a basket

  the current carried off.

  You should know

  every day a mother says goodbye

  a little more.

  Prays the hands that take you

  as tender as hers.

  If it’s in my palm,

  I am careful.

  She said I came to her

  in a dream of a sweeter before

  and told her

  his time on Earth was done.

  She was wailing

  before she woke up.

  Novena

  Nine is quite a number,

  not for the faint of heart,

  worlds on the tree of life,

  days Odin spent upside down

  so the runes might reveal themselves.

  Ninth is Hagalaz, Hela and Holda, the violent storm.

  Cups, pentacles, wands, and swords.

  Wishes granted, garden of thought,

  bitter struggle and dark night of the soul.

  Hermit with lantern turned inward—

  cliffnotes, my scholarly approach.

  Well here’s one you haven’t heard:

  Oya the Orisha,

  mother of nine dead children,

  each a different color

  in the rainbow of her skirt.

  She is a warrior, a lashing tempest.

  Harbinger of sweeping change,

  guardian of the village market

  as well as the cemetery gates.

  Mighty winds.

  A witch. Ferocity and gentleness.

  Some would consider

  her gifts a punishment.

  My purple candles

  are a nod to this.

  Crossroads

  where a woman decides

  between comfort, attention, acceptance,

  or respect.

  White Rabbit

  He recalled a childhood

  embittered by his father’s hand.

  His mama found the strength,

  and into the woods they went.

  Homeless? A camping trip.

  Clean, warm, and fed.

  She foraged, trapped, and worked

  someplace he wouldn’t find.

  Told wonderful stories

  every night before bed—

  shadows on the ceiling of a tent.

  He wasn’t afraid.

  She took those black eyes

  and his mama made

  chandeliers from what remained.

  Branches and lanterns

  in the back of their van.

  He changed his surname as a man,

  so I took the compliment

  when he said we were the same.

  When she said she’d claim me

  if I ever found a serious someone

  but was too ashamed to bring him home.

  She’s who I have in mind

  when I say:

  May you be to your child

  a welcoming wilderness. You know,

  mamas are the real magicians.

  Loved One

  Lord I shed a thug tear

  for this small female jaguar

  trying to make it work

  in a jungle somewhere.

  She was so young.

  Fucked two assholes

  so her single cub

  would be left alone.

  Every hunt was struggle bus,

  but she always pulled through.

  Then one day she came home

  and her baby was gone.

  Some snake swallowed it whole.

  She tracked it down

  and ripped it apart

  just to consume

  its body herself.

  She let the snake rot.

  Heard its little bones crunch.

  That’s what it tastes like

  in your mouth.

  Postpartum

  Watch me

  go to bat for the baby killers.

  Sethe and Medea did nothing wrong,

  fight me about it. Better to die

  unmolested, your mother’s sons,

  than to needlessly suffer, to be groomed

  by a master or father, to turn

  around and inflict that same hurt.

  Give me

  my lady annihilators. Full scorched earth.

  Boudican Destruction Horizon.

  Rome can fuck itself.

  I’ll have it burn.

  She worked sixty hours

  and he left dirty diapers on the floor,

  stay at home what for? Gaming on the couch.

  Newborn next room crying,

  Nonverbal banging on the tub,

  and if she thought for some long minutes

  to hold him under,

  bitch I don’t judge.

  Underdogs

  Must have chugged

  Huginn and Muninn’s draft in the womb,

  got 0.50% on the big bad swan juice,

  salt enough to swallow sins like the ocean,

  crumple steel ships just tin cans

  at these depths.

  Come home to mama.

  Now, we were all tired,

  four tens manual labor is a lot,

  but shit that’s just how well we got on,

  so we packed into a tiny apartment

  and drank.

  When I walked in

  the baby of the crew

  was white girl wasted,

  everyone on sight half bemused

  and half offended. Yuppie church wife

  passive aggression. Bless your heart.

  Well as usual

  he found his way to my lap,

  babbling along while I played with his hair,

  and White Girl took bets on if he’d dare.

  Rocky, A-Train, and Irish said nay.

  I’m Apollo

  for landing a rugby jock on his ass

  with the back of my hand.

  Finally,

  baby teeth opened his eyes

  and announced to the room

  that I was black inside.

  Snort. Okay. Alright.

  That’s fair, it’s fine.

  Then he specified,

  his mother

  raised a gay black son

  alone in a KKK town.

  See what I lacked in melanin,

  I made up for in tannins,

  grit, guts.

  Sometimes

  it’s no insult to be called

  a bad mom.

  July 27, 2025

  folklore, grief, mental health, motherhood, mythology, punk, storytelling

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• Life Support

  Tiamat

  Somewhere out in Georgia

  they’ve strung a woman’s

  desecrated corpse up

  to incubate a failed

  pile of flesh and blood.

  Sit

  the fuck down

  and call it what it is.

  Try

  ego trip meets cowardice.

  These men won’t do right

  without a gun to their heads.

  The oldest, oldest sin

  is matricide. Didn’t just die,

  it was malicious negligence.

  Remember this, we’re just parts

  in a pretty dress. Disposable, yet

  the mother’s mind regulates growth

  hormones, the brain and nervous system—

  a universe intelligent. If she’s not home,

  if she’s oppressed, there’s only so long

  they can sell the crown of God’s intent.

  Clinging to the prefrontal cortex, high

  on pathetic hubris. You emerge

  from the great dreaming

  of your mother’s subconscious

  as surely as every drop of life

  emerged from the sea.

  Positive Reinforcement

  Call me a gorgon,

  the way I make a man

  shit his pants just lookin’ at him.

  I’m never what they’re expectin’,

  one sentence followed by consequences.

  I’ll show you punctuation.

  Ain’t worth my articulation

  if he don’t listen.

  I’m warm as I am calm,

  no taste for a fuss,

  if I’ve gone cold means I’ve had enough.

  Learned from the best, the first

  of my name froze hers on the porch,

  an abusive drunk stone dead at her door—

  call that Choctaw divorce.

  Divine Feminine

  Not to sound like a dragon,

  oh but there’s somethin’ to be said

  about all your pets and an affectionate man

  asleep in your bed.

  Keepin’ all your pleasures in one place,

  just you and your favorite mug

  thinkin’ on what you’ll do

  when he wakes.

  The perks

  of him workin’ late.

  Early to rise is me,

  got plants to tend and chickens to feed,

  a woman needs

  room to breathe

  radiant volume and dust mote sunbeams,

  barefoot in a dark nightdress

  treadin’ the shoreline

  of the deep.

  Send ’em off, from depths receive,

  first and last is where we meet,

  no bolt hole so murky

  as beyond my reach.

  Run lover, fast as you please,

  I’m gonna get you.

  Breathe.

  Yew Berry

  The final gift of dreams

  is lucidity.

  No matter what, how far, how many,

  who or where.

  Mine is the crown of Nightmares.

  Tamer to the jump scares, dread

  is for the unawares. I become myself.

  Whatever’s legs can be a horse.

  Can handle those.

  These here were broken once, both.

  Let it hurt.

  Clawed fingers, drag your body

  through the dirt. If you can’t,

  if you can’t be human, good.

  Just as well, might

  as well be all

  over now, safe at least if not

  strictly speakin’ sound. Come out

  from under those covers, tell me

  what you’ve learned.

  Set Design

  Gorgeous if you’ve gotta count rice,

  throw rhymes or do a dance,

  who cares

  how you get from here to there?

  Got that Van Helsing Rube Goldberg kinda weird.

  I won’t stake your fretted heart,

  nor sever your pretty head—

  all this nonsense ’bout the undead—

  for the record:

  spooks can’t cross runnin’ water

  without their Magna Mater—

  the very soil they sprang from—

  ain’t fuck shit to do with the church. The point

  of silver: it’s a superior heat conductor, star

  studded channel for electricity. Catches charge,

  the magic happens when I throw sparks.

  Sometimes you defibrillate sickness in a herd.

  An ancient covenant between Mothers,

  the strongest of mine for the best of yours,

  spare no sacrifice for a daughter

  of the blood, a man ain’t never been

  the savior of a land.

  Weaker Sex

  Women need twice as much meat,

  and thrice while pregnant. Pigs

  can have that salad. More iron

  than men can do with. Their guts

  are inefficient. We risk

  our lives to wait, the last possible second,

  because they don’t have what it takes:

  over 50,000 calories and pure marrow DNA

  to build a human brain. Actin’ like

  whoopsie daisy there’s a baby,

  we’re right handed as a species,

  premature on the titty, because the left

  holds you to our heartbeat while we

  forge society. Fat heads.

  If a man fell pregnant

  here’s what happens:

  he don’t make it three months

  before multiple organ collapse—

  if his fried limbic system don’t drive him

  carbon monoxide mad first.

  His tissues shred apart like pot roast,

  him or the babe starve,

  just a fetid slump of gore. There is no

  miracle of birth, no Father’s hand

  in a woman’s work.

  Zoonotic Approach

  There was an old jaguar

  up in Alaska, rescued rough,

  but that’s just 250 pounds of cat

  to love. They gave him the biggest box

  of straw, a whole shippin’ container,

  and some fun tree stumps.

  He was gettin’ on, long in the tooth,

  but his handler still sensed the flame

  of his youth. Capacity for joy.

  This was her boy. Always.

  A multinational team

  assembled to draw his own blood

  and spin fresh bone jelly to be

  injected straight into his calcified

  joints. The first operation of its kind.

  Predators are hard to keep under,

  the slightest mistake and he’d die.

  A room full of doctors takin’ cues from the handler

  because this was her boy.

  She never left his side.

  Eyes on his face and hands on his chest,

  knew if he hurt from barest of breaths.

  A lost jungle king of two interventions,

  able to jump, climb, and play again

  because one woman spoke for him.

  May 22, 2025

  environment, gothic, love, mental health, motherhood

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• The Ever After

  Exclusion Zone

  Summer solstice marks

  the season of unrest, a lament

  you’ve not heard. Once

  we could count on storms, now

  it just burns.

  The last who remember before.

  Flip phones or no phones,

  no names on the net,

  the computer’s place is a desk,

  mistakes stay in the past.

  From the window,

  you wouldn’t know.

  Sky blue and glare ghosts,

  1950s and 70s cheerful,

  streets empty of people.

  Vultures wheeling a house

  if the power blinks out.

  Never knew someone lived there.

  We scurry by in the small hours,

  stirred up like hopping mice, burrowing owls,

  and geckos. Little brown bats swoop

  in the moonglow. An approachable furrow.

  Leave my scratchings and readings, balmy

  as a gymrat’s armpit. Bearable.

  Not for long though.

  Time enough to greet her,

  sing some songs by the river,

  scry her face for clues, ask

  to know who I dream of,

  where I belong.

  Invasive Species

  To be clear,

  when it’s a tree spine snapping

  -40 degrees, my order remains

  iced black coffee.

  I rock up with more vigor

  than a fat flying squirrel.

  Wool, boots, hat and go.

  Black widows asleep in my bra—

  when it’s on—bees bustle between

  my thighs. Egg sack on my handlebars,

  I leave well enough alone.

  Skunks don’t trouble me none.

  Called a kit from the dump

  just because. Universal,

  that scared baby trill. Where mama,

  wee people hands grasping your skirt

  adds years to your life.

  Carrying all my groceries uphill over ice

  without choice. Guttered in dirt slush,

  well it be like that sometimes. Gravelly voice,

  so slow to thaw, but it’s alright. It’s worth it

  to mother what others miss.

  Antihero Landing

  Nobody squares up like a goose,

  twenty four flapping pounds of fuck you,

  these birds aren’t afraid to choose—

  violence, yes—but partners too.

  Oh they hit altitude,

  go the distance, up and over Everest.

  You read that right.

  Seal Team Six shit—

  sans imperialist trash. Silly

  my ass. Never leave the fallen

  behind. Be it your best friend

  or your mate. Pity the lamed

  fool whose dance card reads

  my name.

  Black Magic

  When I had nothin’

  but a place to sleep, a nest

  of discarded things. Push pin mural

  of gig posters off telephone poles,

  pretty wrappers, and feathers.

  Fallen branches strung with beads

  and fairy lights. Traded heat

  to smile inside. It’s not childish

  if it’s how you survive.

  Known a few ate guns for less,

  got a brain throws fay gang signs

  but I count myself blessed.

  Sparkly depressed. Back then.

  Bit like Tarzan. Bit like Tangled.

  Come at this bitch sideways

  and you’re best case scenario mangled.

  Peace is when I can see myself

  in my surroundings. This always seems

  like absolute destruction

  to those around me.

  Chthonic Singles in Your Area

  Women’s voices evolved

  for range and specificity.

  Language birthing.

  But men,

  theirs were selected for beauty.

  Pleasing texture. I think,

  I wonder, if First Woman walked

  today, would the Goddess know

  him by his timbre?

  A worthy man

  could only be broken

  in this world. His signature, however,

  intact. The most important piece.

  The oldest stories speak

  to her loss, to the betrayal.

  A dragon, a serpent, denied

  the sustenance of her consort.

  Without him, only monsters born.

  Not on her end of course, nah,

  she can do what she wants,

  ain’t no wrong.

  But Jin, that spells apocalypse!

  That’s just a woman’s prerogative.

  If it’s not at her pleasure it ain’t fit

  to exist. You get what you get.

  Consider this your litmus test.

  Bootstraps

  Anyways, it’s not glass slippers,

  it’s snake print Doc Martens.

  Helluva time tracing these tracks,

  closest I ever came to a prince

  this funny dream I had way back,

  running him down in the woods

  at night. Some freezing, tar feathered

  disaster boy. He was terrified.

  Good times.

  Can’t imagine what I look like

  on the other side.

  If you can’t get farther, you can just

  be more. Full eldritch horror.

  Gods said I’m bound to the earth.

  Been a fuckin’ grind, for sure,

  and the best bargain for youth

  is body. Baby, one sip

  of me and it’s the forever

  kind of sleep.

  Rule of Thumb

  I pour the fucks I give

  from a silver thimble, spiderwebs

  off this spindle. Even so,

  if I think well I say so, if there’s love

  at all I’ll let you know. I am unsubtle.

  Every day, every which way, because any day

  could be your last. More than Covid

  taught me that.

  Always take an extra beat

  for who shuffles their feet,

  leave an extra seat, push back.

  We’re tagged on a feed lot

  headed for slaughter.

  Sold a plan for life when we’re older.

  Wage slave, stripper, or soldier.

  I won’t roll over. I’m tired

  but I’m still my Mother’s daughter.

  The last text my coworker

  ever received was me miles from her

  asking if she needed anything

  at the hospital.

  May 19, 2025

  climate change, mental-health, motherhood, mythology, poetry, romance, storytelling

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• Maternity Ward

  You Belong to a Woman

  Forgiveness is irrelevant,

  every day do better than.

  Closure, the fuck is that?

  Ain’t beatin’ breast on a casket.

  I’ll take any storm,

  Gatling staccato over when,

  you’re older then, below ground.

  While we’re both around, let’s go out

  where there’s no atlas, flood cracks

  where the road was, mirrored sky,

  what are you afraid of? Look

  into my eyes.

  Did you try?

  It’s all just busted boxes

  you call civilization. No power

  to define. Boy,

  I built you right the first time.

  Black Madonna

  Every curl or wave is where I lingered,

  every stubble or peach fuzz. Every note

  or color, you were born

  enough.

  You’re here for me to touch.

  Pretty pebbles in a stream of song,

  no competition if you’re all mine,

  there’s no hurry beauty, my baby,

  I have nothing but time.

  When you were very small,

  jostled and shadowed, loud, I paid

  special attention. Littles

  do latch on. You went on

  and on and on. Every dream

  you ever had until present,

  until you fell asleep talking

  in my lap.

  Or when you saw my eyes open

  and with a grubby hand

  fed me from your snack bag

  at five in the morning.

  No words necessary.

  Like when you left with me

  every razor in your house.

  Symbolic gestures help.

  Or when my phone lights up late

  and you’re looking for a reason,

  it’s old boots now, walk

  my love, you know

  it’s not my first rodeo.

  Toil and Trouble

  We’ll settle it in the kitchen,

  ain’t fuck all but an open mouth,

  can’t wail around peanut butter sandwich,

  here taste this, it’s missing

  something.

  Stir that sauce

  while I make coffee,

  do you take cream? Remind me

  what she used to say, how

  this dish is made.

  But double on the spice babe,

  only white is my surname,

  it’ll be okay. Just okay,

  I still consider this tame.

  Tongue like cartoon flames.

  Rings of fire are my safe space.

  Not a fan of the electric range.

  It’s best to see a thing, go analog.

  If it’s too hands off you get lost.

  Blistered palm, fire is hot. Adjust.

  

  May 9, 2025

  Brigid, mental-health, Mother’s Day, motherhood, poetry

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