This is not a happy birth.
This is hard labour; this is the baby that will ruin the in-between of my legs forever. This is the creation of pain that constantly reminds. A living embodiment of many failures and slight accomplishments.
This is the pushing and pushing of language, the screaming and struggling, a blasphemous bastardization of “the sanctity of life.” A baby unthought of, half-formed, something that should have been aborted, something that may be abandoned. In this way, we with our words are all gods.
In this way we are all unexpected mothers, reaching into our hearts our uteruses and our darkest cores. Looking for poetry in some way.
This is morning sickness. This is bile and vomit. I am not ready.
© Alexandra Jema