No Coronation

(Of course I had to write about Mother's Day) <3

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I have heard that creation is meant to be soft and light and
I argue that from conception to crowning there is no celebration
no coronation
just arrival shit soaked and bloody
splitting the body of delivery in two

there is no light pink and blue no cotton softness
in the push and pull of humanity rending and tending a life into a harsh world

you’re not old yet my son says standing taller than my shoulders
bearing down bearing him bearing the weight of what if
but I’ve watched youth flee me from the day my navel stretched
and skin tore at eighteen
from the day his lifetime ago when I stood at an altar all Romeo and Juliet
and altered a forever I didn’t know would elude me didn’t know would confuse me didn’t know what forever would mean

so when I tell my sons that I hope they love hard their first love and learn much
and give consenually unendingly excitedly
but do not keep her what I mean is love is meant to be freely given and freely seen that there’s little passion in passing by oneanother in the night when trying to build alternate lives that love is sometimes as temporary as a sunrise or the finality of the horizon that there is possibility in every daylight there is patience in every long night there is no forcing forever
no want or try will ensure safety so

I hope my motherhood is a roadmap they lose
a trail they abandon a myth they tell as a cautionary tale

that they build glass houses and live in freedom that when the world says fight or flee they scream other better f words paint their faces with the memories of Amistad reconcile an Armistice become the resistance
name their daughter Courage and fortify with only feathers for flight

I hope their love is soft and round and full and when it comes to opposition I hope sometimes it bends gently and sometimes it remains resolute

I hope they know there’s no failure in the way water trickles downhill and leaves traces picks up pebbles rearranges
that love is the great reconstruction

motherhood has shaped my womanhood like mother earth’s spreading hips the movement of tectonic plates the force of a mountain the rush of the ocean against the lava rent shore I hope they pray to nature and fold their hands and bodies to her alone that they recover remnants of the skin of the soles of my feet the skin of my soul the skin of my teeth from the places I should have laid to rest or paused to learn or dared to imagine

I hope they see motherhood not as a battleground but as a mystery all spread legs and wonder deep drenched in the very smear of being human

there is no softness in creation
let there be light
we have been bloody our whole lives

imagine stars colliding imagine sparks lighting imaging a pelican pecking tears of blood from her own breast imagine feeding your child flesh of your flesh and the constant question
is it enough
was I enough

will they be enough
will they sacrifice Romeo and Juliet at the altar of youth
build a shrine from their bones make bricks from their ashes and smear blood around the doorframe make a pact with the gods for freedom forever

what if forever has already failed their future their hazel eyes their hazy view their mother on fire their gods under siege how can I hand them this future and ask them to thank me

my sons make me pancakes and I offer an apology for the ways I
have mothered wrong or unwell or without belief I tell them there is meant to be a mystery and a epiphany in every act of parenting every act of possibility every time a mother births a child from blood and spit and bone and shit and knows she will not live to see if they make it

if she was enough
if they are enough

If they love madder and live wilder than any mother has if they build bridges out of backgrounds that do not make sense and dare to climb the fiery side of a volcano just to watch everything they know melt because creation is not soft but it is in a flash of the brightest light that

a phoenix rises

I hope they dismantle the very privilege they are born to knock down the statues of patriarchal pride see the lines on the flesh of my side realize the myth is true

I mother because I am selfless and I mother because I am selfish too

no coronation

I hope they lay down every crown set aside the accolades show up to the earthquake with soft eyes and working hands I hope they see that humanity has stretch marks down her side that wounds will never fully heal but that scars can be traced like constellations if you do the work of imagination that it is high time for them to be quiet and soft and round in a hard and square world but it is about time for them to show up to link arms to create safety in a shit soaked bloody world and I hope when I see

their shrines and their doorsteps
strands of my hair wrap inside the bird’s nest next to the stoop
that I trip on my own wishbone cemented in their sidewalk
that they paint a wall of constellations in their living room and that
everything is hazel
everything is clear

it is all an arrival

I never wanted to be a mother but I have been split and saved by their youth and imagination and I hope it is enough these few fleeting days of hard won celebration or recognition I imagine my sons
handing me their sons
I will never raise but have already shaped and

I am all softness and the curtain will rend the garden will need tended and there is room at the altar for this kind of forever because as a mother I know now what forever can mean what forever can be what forever can choose to see even when it is so far in the distance so bloody and torn
so world weary and battled so
worn so fiery and full so bright light
shrouded in mystery
it’s hard to believe
it is enough